Catherine Coulter

by The Valcourt Heiress

  “Aye, ’tis I, Tupper.” As he spoke, Garron was searching the outer bailey for danger, but he saw only what should be there—the barren strip of land twenty feet wide with rusted sharp spikes stuck up three feet into the air, ready to shred an enemy if he managed to get over the outer castle walls. If the enemy managed to get across those twenty feet, he was faced with another high stone wall and another iron portcullis.

  Tupper cupped his mouth and yelled at the top of his aged lungs, “Eller, winch up the portcullis! ’Tis Lord Garron home again! Aye, I know it’s him! We’re saved!”

  Saved? It was nearly full dark now, dark clouds thick overhead, hiding the stars. Garron saw nothing but shadows. His fear fair to choked him now.

  Damocles felt his tension, snorted and reared. Garron leaned forward to pat his neck. “We’re home, lad. Go easy, we’ll find out what’s happened quickly now.” They waited for Eller, the armorer, Garron remembered, to winch up the smaller portcullis, then rode single file into the vast inner bailey, ringed with soldiers barracks set into the walls, an apple and pear orchard fenced in to the side, a large space for the kitchen garden, pens and byres for the animals, stables for the horses, all dominated by the huge stone keep that rose forty feet into the evening air. His keep.

  But there were no people in the inner bailey, an area that should be mad with activity any time of day. There were no lights pouring from the keep, no voices, no screaming children, no flocks of chickens squawking and flying about, no dogs barking their heads off, no cattle lowing in their sheds, no pigs rutting and snorting about in their byre.

  He didn’t see a single soldier. He didn’t see any sign of life at all.

  Garron dismounted slowly, handing Damocles’ reins to Gilpin. There wasn’t a single lit rush torch anywhere he could see, only dark shadows, grim and thick. It was utterly quiet, as if everyone within this vast keep was dead, and he and his men and Tupper and Eller were the only ones alive, and their hours were numbered. He heard Gilpin draw in his breath, knew his men were becoming more alarmed.

  Suddenly he saw several shadows move in the darkness.

  He called out, “I am Lord Garron. I am home now. I mean none of you any harm. Whoever is here, come out now. Tupper! Eller, come to me!”

  Gilpin whispered, “There is no one, my lord. There’s naught but ghosts here.”

  Aleric drew his sword, Hobbs and Pali drew theirs as well. They formed a circle, their backs to Garron. Garron heard Pali sniff, then whisper, “Something is very wrong, Garron. Did a plague strike? Why don’t your people come out?”

  “For some reason, they’re afraid.” Garron shouted again, “Tupper! Eller! Come to me!”

  The old man finally came out of the shadows, shuffling as fast as he could, panting, his back more bowed than when Garron had left so long ago, his clothes filthy and ragged, but he was smiling, showing two remaining teeth. Garron took the old man’s arms in his big hands and pulled him close. He looked down into that old, weathered face and saw tears in his eyes. He said, “It is good to see you, Tupper. I am very glad you are alive.”

  “And I, ye, Lord Garron. Ah, bain’t life odd, my lord? You become stronger and larger and I shrink down into nearly nothing. It’s a fine man ye’ve become, strong and straight. Jes’ look, I don’t come to yer shoulder.”

  So small he was, Garron thought, so very slight, a fist to his shoulder, and he’d be dead. Sometimes, Garron thought, life was more than one could bear. He said, “You’re not nothing, Tupper—you managed to winch up the portcullis, no mean feat. Thank you. Tell me what is wrong here. Where are all our people? All my brother’s soldiers, where are they?”

  Tupper shook his head violently, the tufts of gray hair so dirty they didn’t move on his head. “Since it’s dark, my lord, ye can’t see it—’tis the Retribution, my lord,” he whispered, deadening fear in his voice. “The Retribution,” he repeated, softer still. “All is destroyed, naught but splinters and death. We buried so many—the little ones were the hardest—the stench of death still lingers if ye breathe deeply.”

  Splinters? Death? Garron wanted to explode. By all St. Hermione’s teeth, what damned Retribution? What was Tupper talking about? He didn’t want to yell at the old man, and so he drew a deep breath and said, his voice low and calm, “Tell me. Tell me about this Retribution. Was it a plague?”

  “Aye, it were a plague, but a human sort.” Before the old man could say more, a shadow detached itself from a doorway and straggled toward them. It was a woman, as old and bent as Tupper.

  “My lord?” Her voice was thin and quavery. “My sweet little boy? Garron? Tupper, you’re standing with him, is it really our boy? Eller, I see you hanging back. Come here to me. Tupper, tell me, is it our boy?”

  “Aye, Miggins, ’tis he and he’s proud and strong. Jest ye look at him, here to save us.”

  And Garron remembered her, of course. How could she still be alive? “Is it really you, Miggins?”

  “Aye, my boy.”

  Eller, the armorer, so thin he could hide behind a sapling trunk, hovered over Miggins, his hand on her thin shoulder. He wasn’t all that old, but he looked beaten down, gaunt, his face leached of color, as if he knew life was over and he was simply waiting for death to haul him off.

  Miggins pulled out a stub of a lit candle from behind her back and she held it high to shine it on his face as she walked slowly to him. He saw that her gown was filthy and torn. She shuffled along, indeed an old woman. So thin, her cheeks sunken in, like the two men’s. She stared up at him, studied his face.

  “Aye, jest look at ye, yer so big now. Ye were gone so many years, and they weren’t all bad, those years, and they passed quickly, as years are wont to do as the years press down on ye. At least Tupper and Eller and I still cling to the earth rather than lie dead beneath it with all the others.” Then she smiled at him and gave him a curtsey.

  “Why didn’t you come to me sooner?” Garron asked as he lifted her to her feet and embraced her.

  The old woman said, “Ye might not have been my boy and ye’d have taken my candle and burned off my nose.”

  “Your nose is safe, Miggins. I am here now. You and Eller and Tupper must tell me what has happened. Where are all the soldiers? Where are all my people?”

  Miggins craned her neck back so she could look up at him again, holding her candle high. “Ye have yer sweet mother’s face, but not her eyes, no, you have his eyes, but I see no madness there, thank Saint Rupert’s clean heart. Ah, now I can see him in you, that jaw, stubborn as a stoat’s, that jaw, and yer strong neck, but pray God what’s him is only on the outside—no rot in yer soul. Poor Lord Arthur, his insides were very like yer father. Ye aren’t like yer father or yer brother, are ye, Lord Garron?”

  “No, I am not like them.” Garron rarely thought about his father anymore, a hard man who was wont to strike out with his fists when suddenly rages would come upon him. Garron remembered now that he’d once struck Miggins when he disliked a gown she’d sewn for Garron’s mother. His fist had jerked her off her feet and slammed her into a stone wall. It was one of the few times Garron could remember his mother crying.

  But surely Arthur hadn’t been a bad man or a wastrel master, had he? But his rages, Garron thought, he’d forgotten about Arthur’s rages, unleashed when one didn’t expect them, then gone in a flash, but only after spilled blood, broken bones, and curses. Arthur was taller than Garron had been at sixteen, bigger, and hard with muscle, his voice loud enough to reach fishing boats at sea.

  Miggins whispered, “I prayed the good Lord would save us and He did, though He waited until there nearly wasn’t anything left to save.” She crossed herself and looked around at the heavy, silent darkness.

  Tupper whispered, as if afraid someone would leap out and shove a knife in his throat, “There are a few others here, my lord. Most are gone or dead. Will everyone return? Mayhap now that ye are here they will. Those who still live, that is.”

  Garron couldn’t take it in. He
asked again, “This Retribution, Tupper, you said it was a plague of a human sort.”

  “Worse than a sickness plague,” Miggins whispered, “much worse.”

  He wanted to yell at them to spit it out, but held to his patience. They were old, they were starving, and why was that? “If it wasn’t a sickness plague, then tell me why everyone is dead or gone. Where are Wareham’s soldiers? What was this Retribution?”

  6

  Tupper’s voice was so thin with fear it nearly disappeared in the chill night air. “What happened here, ye ask, my lord? I’ll tell ye and pray my liver doesn’t fall out of my belly for saying his cursed name. The Black Demon came, my lord, and he shouted to all of us that he would unleash the Retribution on Wareham if we didn’t turn over Lord Arthur to him. But how could we? Lord Arthur was already dead and buried, along with the prized sword he’d won off that Flemish knight. We shouted the truth down to him. But he didn’t believe us. Then he claimed he would spare us if we told him where yer brother’s silver coins were hidden, but none knew what he was talking about. None of us ever heard that Lord Arthur had a stash of silver coins. We told him Lord Arthur was dead, and he laughed, jest laughed and laughed. It fair to shriveled yer soul to hear that black laugh.”

  Miggins whispered, “Mayhap the Black Demon believed Lord Arthur a coward, my lord, that he was hiding behind us. Can ye imagine such a thing? Lord Arthur would have fought until he was hacked to death, and his spirit would have continued to fight until he was naught but dirt and air.”

  Aleric said, “But how did this Black Demon and his men get into Wareham? It’s a mighty fortress, not a puling little cottage.”

  Tupper said, “We believe that foul-breathed steward Eisen was a traitor and let the Black Demon’s men in through the hidden postern gate that leads down to the beach. He let in a string of soldiers dressed just as ours are, and they lowered the drawbridge and raised the portcullis before any knew what they were about.”

  Miggins said, her old voice breaking, “The Black Demon unleashed devastation and misery, and he gloried in it, I swear that to ye, jest as he swore it was his right, his pleasure, what was due him. When he destroyed everything, when he could find no one else to kill and torture, he fell into a rage and killed one of his own men who dared to question him. Then he and his men left. When the dawn comes, ye’ll see, my lord, ye’ll see the desolation that demon wrought.”

  Tupper wove where he stood and Garron grabbed him and held him upright. “It’s all right, Tupper. Tell me the rest of it.”

  “Yer brother’s few remaining soldiers melted away, for they had no master to direct them or to pay their wages, and why would they remain in a place of death?

  “We pray that some escaped to the Forest of Glen. But we do not know, since no one could come back. Even if they could, why should they? There was naught left here, naught but the smell of rot and death.”

  “Do you know who this Black Demon is?”

  Both Miggins and Tupper shook their heads.

  “Do you know, Eller?”

  The man shook his head.

  Miggins stepped away from Garron, took Eller’s thin arm, and squeezed. “Poor Eller, one of the Black Demon’s men cut out his tongue because he cursed him for killing his boy and thass why he can’t speak to ye.”

  “Eller?”

  The man nodded.

  “Show me.”

  Eller opened his mouth. What was left of his tongue was no longer raw, thank the good Lord, and it was healing. But now he was mute.

  Garron lightly laid his hand on the old woman’s shoulder. “How many days after Arthur’s death did this happen? How long ago?”

  Miggins scratched her scalp. “Four days after we buried him, the Black Demon came. Now there are naught but spirits here, and barely a score of us left, all of us starving.”

  “I am sorry. I am sorry for all of this. But I will do the best I can to restore Wareham.”

  Tupper nodded, squeezed Garron’s big hand.

  Garron said, “It will be all right. Now, you said there are only a score of our people here besides you, Miggins, and Eller?”

  Tupper nodded.

  “You said no one could come back after the Black Demon left. Why is this? And why did no one go hunting in the Forest of Glen for food?”

  “After the Black Demon left, those who were able went to hunt game, but the Demon’s men were lying in wait and killed them. We thought we could fish, but he’d left men on the beach as well, hiding in those fang-toothed rocks. A few have managed to sneak back in during the night, though I thought they are mad to do so since there is naught here but misery.”

  Miggins said, “Three more men went out again three days later. The soldiers were hiding, jest waiting for us to come out. They killed our three men. No one else went outside the walls.”

  Tupper said, “Turp, the blacksmith, was hiding in the Forest of Glen. He came back today jest when dusk was falling, said the soldiers were gone, and begged Tupper to lower the drawbridge and raise the portcullis and let him enter because he’d brought game, and he had, but only two small pheasants, barely more than a single bite for each of us. Have ye food? He and Eller were going to go back to the forest at first light to hunt. Everyone else is too weak.”

  So that was why they were starving. Garron wondered how many had died, but he didn’t want to know at the moment. He heard his men whispering behind their hands. Since he was the only one who had lived at Wareham, only he knew that dozens upon dozens of people had once lived within the walls, that the inner bailey usually rang with noise and activity, shouts, curses, laughter. The pervasive silence was like a heavy weight on his shoulders.

  He shouted, hoping to reach every corner of the inner bailey, “I will set everything aright. Come out now.” He looked again at Tupper. “Did Lord Arthur ever mention another man he considered a particular enemy?”

  Tupper whispered, “There were always enemies, my lord, but none like this one, this one who loved the smell of death, the screams of those he tortured. He took pleasure in destroying us when he didn’t find Lord Arthur’s silver coins. He yelled over and over, ‘Tis a just Retribution, but if ye give me the silver coins I’ll stop.’”

  Miggins said, “First, he tortured the soldiers who’d survived the fighting, but they couldn’t tell him anything because they didn’t know, and so those few who didn’t escape died. And then he turned to us. He didn’t stop. Ye’ll see the blood dried on the stones, my lord, black now, so much.”

  Tupper whispered, “When I saw ye, young Garron, I thought he was returning, and my heart withered in my breast, and I could not answer ye.” Tupper’s voice hitched. “But it was ye, thank the good Lord. We’ve buried all in the cemetery behind the castle. There were so many, my lord.” Then Tupper began to cry, deep wracking sobs. Before Garron could move, Miggins put her thin arms around Tupper’s bony shoulders. Her broken old voice suddenly sounded strong. “The new master is here, Tupper. All will be well again. He will set everything to rights now.”

  Garron certainly intended to. Who was the Black Demon? He would find out soon enough, but first things first. Garron mounted the deep stone steps and entered the great hall, Aleric and his men behind him, standing alert, hands on their swords and knives, ready for anything. Where were the people who remained? Hiding still, he thought.

  The great hall of Wareham was as black as a cave. Light was the first order of business. Gilpin and Pali followed Miggins and her single candle into the granary, where she showed them rush torches piled up against a wall, ready for use. Once they were lighted and fastened into wall sconces, people began to make their way into the great hall. Miggins stood on the top stairs of the keep, cupped her mouth, and yelled, “’Tis safe now. Come out, the new master is here! He will feed us! Come out, Lord Garron is here! We have light.”

  As people crept into the great hall, all of them frightened, ragged, starving, Garron said over and over, “All will be well now. We have food enough so everyone
will have something to eat. Do not fear me, I am Lord Garron. Come in, come in.” He turned to Aleric. “None of us need to eat tonight. We can wait to fill our bellies after we hunt tomorrow.” He looked at his people’s faces as Hobbs and Gilpin divvied up all the food Garron and his men had with them. This ragtag lot of people were his. He counted heads. Only twenty-two, twelve women, ten old men, no children. Their gaunt faces, however, were no longer blank with despair; he saw burgeoning hope.

  Everyone slowly ate the bread and beef strips, savoring every single chew. What of his farmsteads? What of his two villages? He would find out on the morrow.

  Everyone was still hungry, of course, but at least now they had something in their bellies. And at least the Black Demon hadn’t poisoned the castle’s well.

  In a castle that housed more than one hundred souls, fifty of them soldiers, he had only twenty-two people left, his own three soldiers, and his squire. As he looked out at those faces, he smiled. Tomorrow he would find out what skills he had remaining in his castle other than his armorer, Eller, and Turp the blacksmith.

  Aleric came to him. “I had hoped more poor souls would straggle in, and thus we did not raise the drawbridge or lower the portcullis when we came in. But it’s late now. I sent Gilpin and Hobbs to close us in for the night.” Aleric shook his head. “How Tupper managed to raise the portcullis as high as he did, well, I believe it was God himself helped turn that winch. The chain is thicker than he is.” He looked at the scraggly group of people, still huddled together, heard some conversation amongst them now, and that was heartening. “We also searched both the outer and inner baileys but saw no one else.”