The Wishing Well (Legends of Love Book 1)

by Avril Borthiry

  “I was told about the position and applied. It allowed me to be close to your mother and to—”

  “So, you’d obviously never met my father before. I mean, he didn’t know about you and…and Mama.”

  William cleared his throat. “I never met the earl before I came to Rothwyn, no. And no, he didn’t know about the previous agreement. Her father bid her stay silent about it and she didn’t dare disobey. I doubt it would have made any difference anyway.”

  Lora stopped her pacing and fixed him with a grave stare. “What did you wish for that night, Master William?”

  “Ah, lass, I can’t tell you that. Suffice to say, had my wish been granted, I’d likely be living happily with your mother right now.”

  “And I would not be here.”

  “Here?” He shook his head. “No, child, you wouldn’t.”

  “And Gareth would still be alive.”

  “By God’s holy grace, aye.”

  She made a sound that might have been a laugh. “By God’s holy grace. Of course. Now I understand what the voice meant.”

  “Voice?” William frowned at the tears in Lora’s eyes. “What voice?”

  “When I was at Rothwyn with Gareth, I kept hearing a voice. It said I wasn’t supposed to be here. I didn’t know what it meant, but now I do. If your wish had been granted, none of this,” she gestured with her hand, “would have happened. You’d be with Mama and Gareth would still be alive. That’s why I shouldn’t be here. I was never supposed to be born.”

  Shock rattled William to the core and he struggled to draw breath. “Christ save us,” he whispered at last, pushing himself to his feet and stepping over to her. “That’s not it, little ’un. That’s not it at all. You’re as much a part of this discrepancy of fate as I am. Think, child. Think about what Gareth told you not a fortnight since, and about what I’ve said today. When you understand what it means, reach out and touch a truth that has been disguised for nigh on seventeen years. I swear before God that it stands right in front of you.”

  The church bell rang, one steady peal following another, breaching the solemn silence. Lora appeared not to notice. Her eyes remained locked with his, a small frown creasing her brow, although William could tell her sight was turned inward. He bit down against a sudden surge of emotion, sensing the imminent arrival of her comprehension. In mere moments, for the first time in her life, Lora would realize who she really was.

  Who he was.

  Ah, but what if she rejected the truth, refused to acknowledge him as her sire? What then? With fear and anticipation twisting his gut, and the pagan artifact still clutched in his hand, he threw a silent prayer heavenward. The bell pealed once more and Lora gave a soft little gasp, awareness flaring in her eyes.

  William held his breath.

  “I was wrong,” she said, tears escaping down her cheeks. “My father has not abandoned me.”

  Then she reached out and touched him.

  Muted by emotion, William took Lora’s hand and scrutinized it as he might a newly found treasure; the shape of her fingers, the rosy hue of her nails, the dimples on her knuckles. Small details perhaps, but until that moment, he’d never been free to appreciate the perfection of his child. Now, finally, a door previously closed to him had been opened.

  At last he managed a response. “Nay, your father has never abandoned you. Nor will he, by God’s blessed grace.”

  Lora’s eyes, still soft with tears, searched his face, no doubt trying to see something of herself. “I can hardly believe it.”

  He gave a half smile. “’Tis doubtless a shock.”

  She nodded, frowning. “Though it explains much, the more I think on it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He, the earl, must have known when he married Mama.” A flush colored her cheeks. “That is, Gareth told me a man can tell if a woman is… is no longer…um…”

  “Virtuous? Aye, a man can usually tell, and your mother was afraid he might, but he never once mentioned it.” William paused. The thought of Elizabeth with another, albeit her husband, still rankled, yet he determined to speak the truth, bitter as it was. “Lora, the earl’s desire for your mother was never frivolous. He saw what he wanted and took it without prejudice. I believe he loved her, and deeply. Still does, I’m sure, even though his love has never been returned in kind.”

  “That’s not quite what I meant.” Lora fidgeted. “I think he knows I’m not his child. He has never shown real affection for me, and the way he abandoned me here without even a farewell was…heartless.”

  William saw the hurt in Lora’s eyes and inwardly chastised himself. It was arrogant to assume her acceptance of his confession might cauterize recent wounds. No matter whose blood flowed in her veins, the lass had been raised believing Godfrey FitzGilbert to be her father, and the pain of that man’s rejection obviously still lingered.

  “I cannot say for certain if he doubts your lineage, Lora. But I can tell you that he’s a proud man, not given to displays of affection. You also have to consider what he saw the night you were discovered with Gareth, what he believed had taken place. Stand in his shoes if you can and imagine the humiliation he must have felt with Edward and his knights as witnesses.” William grimaced. “I do not condone his subsequent actions but I understand them. He did what he believed he had to do. And, think on, he could have sent you on your way with only an armed escort, yet he escorted you himself. Took personal responsibility for your safety. That means something, I think. I also suspect he left here without saying goodbye because he was afraid.”

  Lora’s eyes widened. “Afraid of what?”

  “Of confronting the feelings you say he lacks. Or perhaps afraid of showing them, which he would consider weakness on his part.”

  She looked away, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. “I never thought of it that way,” she murmured, returning her gaze to his. “Thank you, Master, no, forgive me. What shall I call you? Papa? Or…or Father, perhaps?”

  How many times had he imagined hearing her address him in such a way? Yet he cleared his throat and took a passive approach. “Whatever is comfortable for you, little ’un. You may leave things as they are if you wish. I’ve always known the truth of our bond, and now you know it, too. ’Tis what matters most to me.”

  Her expression softened. “Things will never be as they were,” she said, stepping into his arms and resting her head against his chest. “Earlier, when I said it explains much, I was also thinking about you. You’ve always been there, haven’t you? Guiding me, protecting me. Covering for me, too.” She looked up at him with a little smile. “Now I know why.”

  William grunted, a nonchalant sound that in no way reflected the sudden warmth around his heart. “Aye, well, you were hardly a docile child. Always in trouble or heading for it.”

  “And look where it got me.” She sighed. “It must have been so difficult for you, watching me grow up from afar.”

  You have no idea. “It wasn’t easy. But at least I was close to you and your mother.”

  She stepped back. “So, what now, Papa? There has to be more to this saga of ours. Gareth gave me the medallion for a reason, I’m sure.”

  Papa. An uttered word had never sounded so sweet. Odd, too, that the lass should also choose saga.

  “Your saga is not yet finished,” he murmured, reminded of Iorwerth’s enigmatic statement.

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Lora’s question remained unanswered as a carillon of echoes rang out from William’s past, inconceivable, impossible, blasphemous echoes, spilled from the lips of a witch.

  “In order to change your future, you must first change your past.”

  “Is such a thing possible?”

  “That’s up to you. And you’ll need this.”

  William glanced at the medallion still resting in his hand.

  “You will have one chance, and one only.”

  But he’d failed in his quest. There were no second chances. At leas
t, not for him.

  A question drifted, unbidden, into his mind.

  “The voice you heard at Rothwyn,” he said, “did it say anything else to you?”

  Lora nodded. “Choose your words. I heard that several times. And, give it time. That, too, I heard more than once. Why? Do you know what it means?”

  William drew a shaky breath. “Aye, I do.” He held out the medallion. “Here, child. This is yours now, not mine.”

  She hesitated, a glimmer of confusion flaring in her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s why Gareth returned it. Fate got it wrong, Lora, and I failed to put it right. It’s up to you now.” The medallion swung from his hand like a pendulum. “One day you’ll return to Rothwyn, and when you do, you must take this with you and visit the well. Finish what I started.”

  “What are you saying? That I must make a wish?”

  “Aye.”

  “But I don’t see how… I mean, whatever would I wish for?” Face pale, her eyes followed the medallion’s slow cadence. “To put things right, to change all this, would mean…”

  William gave a single nod. “Altering the past.”

  “But that’s impossible,” she whispered, stopping the golden disc mid-swing to cradle it in her palm. “Isn’t it?”

  He raised a brow. “How can you ask such a question,” he said, “when you’re holding the impossible in your hand?”

  Chapter 17

  The swallows had returned.

  Lora leaned on the handle of her hoe and watched them, her heart quickening. Their arrowhead silhouettes shot across the sky, sapphire wings flashing in the morning sunlight. With nimble grace, they swooped down and darted beneath the roof covering the abbey’s well. Built into the eaves, their sturdy nests had sat vacant since the previous summer.

  The little birds had first appeared at the abbey twelve years previously, in the spring following Gareth’s ghostly visit. Lora took their arrival as a sign, a reminder that Gareth’s spirit endured, that one day he would also return. Into what world and time, she knew not, but her faith remained steadfast.

  ‘Think of me often and smile whenever you do’, he’d said to her. Consequently, not a day passed without her smiling at least once, no matter her mood.

  She smiled now and arched her stiffening spine, taking additional pleasure in surveying the morning’s achievements. Around her, the abbey’s vegetable and herb gardens spread out in pungent readiness. Since dawn, she’d cleaned out much of the previous year’s old growth and tilled a fresh mixture of straw and manure into the sweet, damp soil.

  Over the years, Lora’s life at Whitestone Abbey had settled into a tolerable routine. It helped that a beacon of hope, fueled by pagan promises not yet fulfilled, shone in her previously dark future. The man she knew to be her sire also kept her spirits aloft. In learning more about William, she had learned more about herself. They shared much in common, and she valued his guidance and wisdom beyond measure.

  Today, being the third Thursday in this month of April, meant he would be arriving soon. The truth of their actual relationship remained a secret, of course. Lora took care to address him as Master William in the presence of others, but he was her Papa when they were alone. She heaved a contented sigh, anticipating a pleasant afternoon in his company.

  As for the earl, she’d heard not a word since the day he’d left, at least, not directly. Obviously, he was still paying the abbey for her upkeep. Her mother’s letters also mentioned him once in a while, a casual reference here and there, nothing specific. Lora took care with her replies since she feared, and William concurred, that her correspondence was likely being scrutinized at Rothwyn. Even so, she dared to offer subtle hints about the well-being of certain friends at the abbey, hopeful her mother would understand the hidden meaning. It seemed so, judging by implied acknowledgments in the replies.

  The sound of her name being called interrupted Lora’s pondering. Blinking daydreams from her eyes, she turned to see one of the sisters at the corner of the cloisters, summoning with a gesture.

  “You have a visitor,” the nun said. “He’s in the Reverend Mother’s office.”

  Lora cast a bewildered glance at the sun, which sat about half way to its apex.

  Already? He was early. Perhaps, as sometimes happened, he’d been given a lift by a passing wagon. A double blessing, for the long walk always fatigued him, especially of late. It also meant they’d have more time together. With a nod of assent, Lora hurried over to the well, intent on washing the earth from her fingers before going to greet him. A fleeting and trivial question crossed her mind as she plunged her hands into the water bucket. Why the Reverend Mother’s office? Usually, William awaited her in the library.

  A short time later, Lora paused outside the office door, her knuckles poised in readiness to knock. A soft hum of conversation traversed the thick oak, a contrasting undulation of male and female tones. The Reverend Mother’s voice she recognized. The man’s voice, however, she could not place.

  Who?

  A twinge of apprehension accompanied her frown as she rapped on the door and pushed it open. The conversation between the two came to an immediate halt, like conspirators caught in the act. Lora took a tentative step over the threshold, her body tensing in the uneasy atmosphere. The abbess remained seated, her expression troubled. The man rose to his feet, regarded Lora through pale, narrowed eyes, and inclined his head.

  He was tall, with straight, sallow hair that fell to his shoulders. His clothing implied his status, as did the sword-hilt jutting from his cloak. A knight, at least. Possibly a minor noble. Lora held her breath, nervous fingers seeking the spot between her breasts where the medallion rested. Unable, or perhaps reluctant, to choose from a growing number of questions, she gave her head a slight shake and braced herself. Such a visitor, after all, could not be carrying good tidings.

  “My lady.” The man’s gaze raked over her with a measure of mild curiosity. “My name is Renald D’Aramitz, retainer of Earl FitzGilbert of Rothwyn. I am charged with ensuring your swift and safe return to that stronghold and request your preparation to leave Whitestone Abbey forthwith. Your escort awaits.”

  *

  William had set out for Whitestone Abbey at first light, drawing his cloak about him to shield against the chilly remains of night. The sky, wearing soft stripes of silver and blue, promised a fine day. He gave silent thanks for good weather while trying to shrug off a persistent sense of unease. For the past few weeks he’d felt oddly detached, as if body and mind struggled to work in unison. Anxiety nibbled at him, yet he could not define the reason for it. Consequently, his mood had descended into something less than agreeable, his patience stretching as taut as a bowstring. He wondered if his body harbored a malady of some strange sort.

  He had no fever, though. No stomach ailment, no cough, nothing other than a vague tightness around his ribs. Maybe he was merely overwrought. Recently, he’d been occupied with reconciling the yearly accounts, stooped over the manor’s books from dawn till dusk, quill in hand. A wearisome process, for sure. And, although the years had been kind to him, they had, nonetheless, erased his youth.

  No doubt the walk to Whitestone would do him good. Certainly, the thought of spending time with his daughter cheered him, as always. William knew Lora would be waiting, eager for his company as he was for hers. Perhaps, if fortune smiled, he might secure a lift from a passing wagoner and arrive at the abbey sooner. Focused on such positive thoughts, he lifted his chin and lengthened his stride.

  He had not gone far when he noticed a figure standing in the road ahead, a man, judging by the build and height. Hooded and cloaked, the motionless silhouette exuded an enigmatic, rather than threatening aura. He appeared to be waiting for someone.

  William felt for the dagger tucked in his belt and wrapped his fingers around the wooden hilt. It gave him a measure of comfort as he approached the stranger, although he felt no real fear. After all, he carried nothing of tangible value and woul
d be a worthless target for any enterprising robber.

  Then, when the two men were mere strides apart, the mysterious figure drew back his hood and bared his features to the light. William froze, breath locked in his lungs. Time seemed to roll backward, jarred into reverse by the startling recognition of a man not seen in nigh on twelve years.

  “Sweet Christ above, do my eyes deceive me?” He took a hesitant step, not quite able to accept what he saw. “Iorwerth? God save us, is that you?”

  Iorwerth gave a slow, solitary nod, his expression composed. “Bore da, William. I’m not forgotten, then?”

  “What? Dear God, no, of course not. Not forgotten at all. I have oft wondered what became of you after that night in the forest. And I swear, by all the saints, you haven’t changed. Not a bit.” William gave his befuddled head a shake as suspicion usurped surprise. This unlikely meeting in the middle of a deserted country road was surely no coincidence, nor the reason for it benign. The anxiety he’d hosted for the past few weeks writhed within. “Why are you here? Is something wrong?”

  Iorwerth shrugged. “Wrong? Aye, there’s plenty wrong, but you know that already. You’ve kept well, though, in my absence? Found solace in your role as a father?”

  William narrowed his eyes. “I have, as much as time has allowed. I’m on my way to see Lora right now, but I suspect you know that already, too.”

  “Hmm.” Iorwerth sidestepped and headed down the road, giving William’s shoulder a single squeeze as he passed. “Walk with me, my friend.”

  “But…the abbey is this way.”

  Iorwerth’s mellow response drifted back. “Visiting the abbey serves no purpose anymore.”

  “What?” William strode after him. “Why not, for Christ’s sake? Wait, will you? Stop being so damn mysterious and tell me what in heaven’s name is going on. Has something happened to Lora?”

  Iorwerth spun on his heel, his gaze sharp, his voice still soft. “Your daughter is quite well. You have my word on that.”