Shaking herself, she walked determinedly to the great gray stone fireplace at the room’s far end. It was obviously very old—probably older than all the carved wood paneling—and entirely black inside. She found a box by the side containing a few sticks and one log, which she carefully placed inside the fireplace, trying not to think of spiders. Mouse came over to see what she was about, but he soon wandered off again to investigate the shadows.
Melisande stood and brushed off her hands. She searched the mantelpiece and finally found a jar of dusty tapers. She lit one from a candle and held it to the sticks, but the sticks wouldn’t catch, and the taper soon burned down. Melisande reached for another taper and was just about to light it when Mouse barked.
She started and turned. A man stood behind her, tall and dark and lean, his shoulder-length hair hanging tangled about his face. He was looking at Mouse, standing at his feet, but at Melisande’s movement, he turned his head to her. The left side of his face was twisted with scars, lit awfully by the flickering candles, and the eye socket on that side was sunken and empty.
Melisande dropped the taper.
MUNROE’S MANSERVANT WAS telling them that he hadn’t any clean linens in the entire manor, and Jasper was about to shake the man in frustration when he heard Mouse bark. He looked at Pynch, and without a word, they turned and ran back down the dark, twisting stairs. Jasper cursed. He should never have left Melisande alone.
Outside the sitting room, Jasper paused to approach silently. Mouse hadn’t barked again since that first time. Jasper peered in the room. Melisande stood at the far end, her back to the fireplace. Mouse was in front of her, legs stiff, but he was silent. And facing both of them was a big man in leather gaiters and an old hunting coat.
Jasper stiffened.
Munroe turned and Jasper couldn’t help but flinch. When last he’d seen the man, his wounds were raw and bleeding. Time had healed the wounds that covered the left side of his face, scarred them over, but it hadn’t made them any prettier.
“Renshaw,” Munroe rasped. His voice had always been husky, but after Spinner’s Falls, it had taken on a broken quality, as if damaged by his screams. “But you’re Vale now, aren’t you? Lord Vale.”
“Yes.” Jasper moved into the room. “This is my lady wife, Melisande.”
Munroe nodded, though he didn’t turn back around to acknowledge her. “I believe I wrote you not to come.”
“I received no missive,” Jasper said honestly.
“Some might take that as an unwelcoming sign,” Munroe said dryly.
“Would they?” Jasper took a deep breath to control the anger surging in his breast. He owed Munroe much—things he could never repay—but this involved Munroe too. “But, then, the matter I come on is most pressing. We need to talk about Spinner’s Falls.”
Munroe’s head reared back as if he’d been hit in the face. He stared at Jasper, his light hazel eye hooded and unreadable.
Finally he nodded once. “Very well. But it’s late, and your lady is no doubt tired. Wiggins will show you some rooms. I do not promise comfort, but they can be made warm. In the morning we will talk. Then you can leave.”
“I have your word?” Jasper asked. He wouldn’t put it past Munroe to simply disappear and stay away until they were gone.
The side of Munroe’s mouth kicked up. “My word. I will talk to you on the morrow.”
Jasper nodded. “I am grateful.”
Munroe shrugged and walked out of the room. The little red-haired man—presumably Wiggins—had been lurking about the doorway, and now he said grudgingly, “I ’spose I can make th’ fire in your rooms.”
He turned and left without another word.
Jasper blew out a breath and looked at Pynch. “Can you look to settling the other servants? See if there’s anything to eat in the kitchens and find them rooms.”
“Yes, my lord,” Pynch said, and departed.
And that left Jasper with his lady wife. He turned reluctantly to look at her. She still stood in front of the fireplace. Any other woman might be in hysterics by now. Not Melisande.
She stared back at him levelly and said, “What happened at Spinner’s Falls?”
SALLY SUCHLIKE CAREFULLY spread the hot coals with a poker and then hung a kettle from the big hook in the fireplace. It was a huge fireplace, the biggest Sally had ever seen. Big enough for a grown man to walk into and stand upright. What anyone wanted with such a big fireplace, she didn’t know. It was harder to work with than a nice, normal-sized one.
The water in her kettle soon began to steam, and she dropped in the jointed rabbit Mr. Pynch had found in the pantry. A lady’s maid was a superior servant, and it wasn’t part of her duties to cook, but there wasn’t anyone else about to prepare their supper. No doubt Mr. Pynch knew how to make a rabbit stew—and a better one than she was attempting—but he was busy finding rooms for their mistress and master.
Sally threw some chopped carrots into the kettle. They were a little withered, but they’d have to do. She added some little round onions and stirred the whole thing. It looked a bit of a mess at the moment, but maybe it’d perk up once it had stewed a bit. She sighed and sat in a nearby chair, wrapping her shawl tightly about her shoulders. The fact was, she didn’t know much about cooking. When she’d been a scullery maid, she’d mostly washed dishes and cleaned. Mr. Pynch had given her the rabbit, carrots, and onions and told her to boil them, so she did. They’d had no help from that nasty red-haired man, Wiggins. He reminded Sally of a troll from a fairy tale, he did. And he’d disappeared the minute Mr. Pynch’s back was turned, leaving the Renshaw servants to stumble about in an unfamiliar house.
Sally got up and peered into the simmering pot. Perhaps she ought to add something else. Salt! That was it. Mr. Pynch would think her a ninny if she didn’t know enough to salt a stew. She went to a big cupboard standing in the corner and began to rummage. It was nearly empty, but she did manage to find the salt and some flour.
Ten minutes later, she was trying to knead a bowl of flour, salt, butter, and water, when Mr. Pynch walked into the kitchens. He set down his lantern and came to where she was battling the dough, then stood silently at her elbow looking into the bowl.
She glared up at him. “It’s dumplings for the stew. I tried to do it like I’ve seen Cook do, but I don’t know if I have, and for all I know, it may taste just like glue. I’m not a cook, you know. I’m a lady’s maid, and I’m not expected to know how to cook. You’ll just have to be content with what I can make, and if it turns out terrible, I don’t want to hear about it.”
“I’m not complaining,” Mr. Pynch said mildly.
“Well, don’t.”
“And I like dumplings.”
Sally blew a lock of hair out of her eyes, feeling suddenly shy. “You do?”
He nodded. “Yes, and those look perfectly fine. Shall I carry the bowl to the hearth so you can drop them into the stew?”
Sally straightened her shoulders and nodded. She rubbed her hands to get most of the dough off, and Mr. Pynch picked up the big crockery bowl. Together they went to the fireplace, where he held the bowl while she carefully dropped spoonfuls of dough into the stew. She covered the kettle with an iron lid so the dumplings would steam and turned to Mr. Pynch. She was conscious that her face was sweaty from the heat of the fire. Strands of her hair had come down and were sticking to her face, but she looked him in the eye and said, “There. How’s that?”
Mr. Pynch leaned close and said, “Perfect.”
And then he kissed her.
MELISANDE PILED BLANKETS on the floor and watched her husband pace the room. He was agitated tonight, as if at any moment his control would break and he’d leave the room and run. Was that what Sir Alistair had been doing, riding so late and in the dark? Was he trying to outrun demons as well?
Yet Vale stayed, and she was grateful for that. He hadn’t answered her question about Spinner’s Falls yet. He drank from a glass of whiskey and paced the room, but he staye
d with her. There had to be some comfort in that.
“It was after Quebec, you see,” he said suddenly. Facing the window, he might not have even been talking to her, save for the fact that she was the only other person in the room. “It was September, and we’d been ordered to Fort Edward to spend the winter. We’d already lost over one hundred men in the battle and left another three dozen behind because they were too wounded to march. We were decimated but thought the worst was over. We’d won the battle —Quebec had fallen to us—and it was only a matter of time before the French would be forced to surrender entirely and the war would be ours. The tide had turned.”
He paused to gulp from the whiskey and said softly, “We were so hopeful. If the war ended soon, we could go home. That’s all we wanted: to go home to our families. To rest a bit after battle.”
Melisande tucked a sheet about the blankets. It was a bit musty from the press where it’d been stored, but it would have to do. As she worked, she thought of a younger Jasper, marching with his men through an autumn forest half a world away. He would’ve been elated after a battle won. Happy at the prospect of going home soon.
“We were marching down a narrow trail, with rugged hills on one side and a river on the other that ran along a cliff face. The men were only two abreast. Reynaud had just ridden up to me and said he thought we were too strung out; the tail of the marching column was half a mile back. We decided to inform Colonel Darby, to request that we slow the head to let the tail catch up, when they struck.”
His tone was flat, and Melisande sat back on her heels to watch him as he spoke. He still faced the window, his back broad and straight. She wished she could go to him, wrap her arms about him and hold him close, but it might interrupt the flow of his words. And she sensed that, like lancing an infected wound, he needed to let the festering corruption drain away.
“You can’t think in battle,” he said, his tone almost musing. “Instinct and emotion take over. Horror at seeing Johnny Smith shot with an arrow. Rage at the Indians screaming and running at your men. Killing your men. Fear when your horse is shot from beneath you. The surge of panic when you know you must jump clear or be trapped underneath the beast, helpless to a war axe.”
He sipped at his drink while Melisande tried to understand his words. They made her heart beat faster, as if she felt the same urgent panic he had experienced so long ago.
“We fought well, I think,” Vale said. “At least others have told me so. I can’t evaluate the battle. There’s only the men around you, the little piece of soil that you defend. Lieutenant Clemmons fell and Lieutenant Knight, but it wasn’t until I saw Darby, our commander, dragged from his horse that it occurred to me that we were losing. That we would all be killed.”
He chuckled, but the sound was dry and brittle, not at all like his usual laugh. “That was when I should’ve felt fear, but oddly I didn’t. I stood in a sea of fallen bodies and swung my sword. And I killed a few of those savage warriors; yes, I did, but not enough. Not enough.”
Melisande felt tears prick her eyes at the sad weariness of his voice.
“In the end, my last man fell and they overwhelmed me. I went down with a blow to the head. Fell on top of Tommy Pace’s body, in fact.” He turned from the window and crossed to a table where the decanter of whiskey stood. He filled his glass and drank. “I don’t know why they didn’t kill me. They should’ve; they’d killed nearly everyone else. But when my wits returned to me, I was roped by the neck to Matthew Horn and Nate Growe. I looked around and saw that Reynaud was part of their booty as well. You won’t believe how relieved I was. Reynaud at least had lived.”
“What happened?” Melisande whispered.
He looked at her, and she wondered if he’d forgotten she was in the room. “They marched us through the woods for days. Days and days with little water and no food, and some of us were wounded. Matthew Horn had taken a ball to the fleshy part of his upper arm during the battle. When John Cooper could no longer walk because of his wounds, they led him into the woods and killed him. After that, whenever Matthew stumbled, I leaned my shoulder into his back, urging him on. I couldn’t afford to lose another soldier. Couldn’t afford to lose another man.”
She gasped at the horror. “Were you wounded?”
“No.” He wore a horrible half-smile on his face. “Save for that bump on the head, I was perfectly fine. We marched until we reached an Indian village in French-held territory.”
He drank more of his whiskey, nearly emptying the glass, and closed his eyes.
Melisande knew, though, that this wasn’t the end of the tale. Something had caused the horrific scars on Sir Alistair’s face. She took a deep breath, bracing herself, and said, “What happened at the camp?”
“They have a thing called a gauntlet, a pretty way to welcome captives of war to the camp. The Indians line up, men and women, in two long lines. They run the prisoners, one by one, between the lines. As the prisoners run, the Indians hit them with heavy sticks and kick them too. If the man falls, he is sometimes beaten to death. But none of us fell.”
“Thank God,” she breathed.
“We did at the time. Now I’m not so sure.”
He shrugged and drank more whiskey. He sat slumped into a chair, his words slurring a bit now.
“Jasper?” Perhaps it would be best to go no further. Melisande was afraid of what would come next. He’d already endured so much, and it was late and he was tired. “Jasper?”
But he didn’t seem to hear her. He stared into his whiskey glass, as if bemused. “And then came their real fun. They took away Reynaud, and they tied Munroe and Horn to stakes. They took burning sticks and they . . . they . . .”
He was breathing hard. He closed his eyes and swallowed, and still he couldn’t seem to get the words out.
“Don’t, oh, don’t,” Melisande whispered. “You don’t have to tell me, you don’t.”
He looked at her, puzzled and sad and tragic. “They tortured them. Burned them. The sticks were red-hot, and the women wielded them—the women! And then Munroe’s eye. God! That was the worst. I screamed at them to stop, and they spit at me and cut off the men’s fingers. I knew then to be silent, no matter what they did, because crying out, showing any emotion, only made it worse. And I tried, Melisande, I tried, but the screams and the blood . . .”
“Oh, my dear, oh, my dear.” Melisande had moved to him. She bent and held him in her arms, his face against her breast. And she couldn’t hold back her tears now. She sobbed for him.
“The second day, they brought us to the other side of the camp,” Vale whispered against her breast. “They were burning Reynaud there. He was crucified and on fire. I think he was dead already, because he didn’t move, and I thanked God again. I thanked God that my dearest friend was dead and could no longer feel the pain.”
“Shh,” Melisande whispered. “Shh.”
But he didn’t stop. “And when the fire had died out, they took us back to the other side of camp and went on with it. Munroe’s face and Horn’s chest. On and on and on.”
“But you were saved in the end, weren’t you?” she asked desperately. He had to leave these dreadful images and go on to the hopeful part. He’d survived. He had lived.
“After two weeks. I’m told Corporal Hartley led back a rescue party and ransomed us, but I don’t really remember. I was in a daze.”
“You were in despair and wounded.” Melisande tried to comfort him. “It’s understandable.”
He pulled violently out of her arms. “No! No, I was perfectly well, entirely intact.”
She stared. “But the torture . . . ?”
He ripped open his shirt and revealed his broad chest. “You’ve seen me, my sweet wife. Is there a scar on any part of my body?”
Her eyes dropped, puzzled, to his unmarked chest. “No—”
“Because they didn’t touch me. In all those days of torturing the others, they never laid a hand on me.”
Dear God. Melisande stared at his
chest. For a man like Vale, being the one left unscarred would be worse than bearing the wounds.
She took a deep breath and asked the question he so obviously expected. “But why?”
“Because I was the witness, the most senior officer after they’d killed Reynaud, the only other captain. They made me watch, and if I so much as flinched at what they did, they cut deeper, dug the burning brand in harder.”
He looked at her and smiled awfully, the demons shining from his eyes. “Don’t you see? They tortured the others while I sat and watched.”
Chapter Sixteen
Princess Surcease ate her soup, and what should be at the bottom of the bowl but the silver ring? Well, the king roared for the head cook, and the poor man was again dragged before the court. But no matter how they questioned him, he swore up, down, and sideways that he did not know how the ring had come to be in the princess’s soup. In the end, the king had to send him back to the kitchens again. All the people of the court leaned their heads close and wondered who had won the silver ring.
But Princess Surcease was silent. She merely stared thoughtfully at her fool. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
Melisande woke the next morning to the sound of Mouse scratching at the door. She turned and looked at Vale. He lay with one arm flung over his head, the covers half off his long form. In the last couple nights, she’d discovered that he was a restless sleeper. He often draped an arm or leg over her in his sleep, and sometimes she would wake with his face buried in her neck. More than once he’d rolled over, taking all the covers with him. She didn’t mind. It was well worth the cost of lost blankets to sleep with him.
But after last night’s harrowing confession, he needed more rest. Melisande carefully slipped from the covers and got up. She found a simple bodice and skirt to put on, wrapped a cloak about herself, and left the room quietly with Mouse. They pattered down the stairs and made their way through the dark hallways to the kitchens.
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