“How long will a woman watch her children go hungry?” Vivienne asked. “They may become so desperate that they do not care what his retaliation might be.”
A fanfare sounded and a minstrel leaped out of the portal to the keep proper, sounding his horn as he did so. He too was dressed in fine silken garments of bright hues and he bowed low as he glanced back to that portal.
The women sneered, but their expressions became impassive as soon as a party of four nobles stepped through the doorway. Vivienne realized that they were not prepared to fully tempt the laird’s wrath.
For it was none other than Nicholas Sinclair, garbed richly from head to toe, who strode across the bridge over the moat. His hair gleamed in the sunlight, the gems upon his fingers flashed. He laughed at some comment made by the other man who strolled with him, the handsome group making their way toward the saddled steeds.
The women wore clothing so ornate as to have cost a king’s ransom, their tightly laced vests trimmed with ermine, their sleeves hanging to the very ground, their skirts and sleeves hemmed with deep golden embroidery thick with gems. Both wore gloves of colored leather, both wore their hair curled up beneath elaborate caps adorned with massive feathers. Two maids scampered behind the group, giggling with each other and grimacing at the mud underfoot.
Vivienne turned to her companions, intending to make some comment about the women’s rich garb, but the shocked expressions upon the mens’ voices stole whatever she might have said. Erik seemingly could not look beyond the woman who took his brother’s elbow. “What is amiss?” she asked. “You must have expected to see Nicholas here.”
Erik swallowed and bowed his head.
Ruari looked to Vivienne with sympathy in his eyes. “The woman who walks with Nicholas.”
“She is garbed as richly as a queen and looks most delighted with herself.” Vivienne said, not understanding the reason for their dismay. “You must have seen such fine garb in your journey. To be sure, the peasants have contributed the coin and that is shocking, but…”
“She is Beatrice,” Ruari said grimly.
Vivienne looked between the two men in dismay, but Erik’s features might have been wrought of stone. “Not Erik’s wife, Beatrice. She is dead.”
Ruari shook his head. “She appears most hale.”
And Vivienne understood then the fullness of the challenge before her. No wonder Erik looked like a man struck to stone! His beloved yet lived!
She turned back to watch Erik’s wife, tears blurring her vision. She had erred in truth, for not only did Erik love his wife, but his wife still drew breath.
Which meant that Vivienne could never win his regard for her own.
Impulse had steered her false.
Beatrice was alive!
Erik could not believe the evidence of his own eyes. Several matters which had always confused him, however, began to make a dreadful sense.
Why had there been no hint of her presence when he had returned to Blackleith in the earl’s company? Why had no one been willing to tell the earl outright about her fate? Erik suspected that even Nicholas knew that the Earl of Sutherland would not be hasty to endorse an immediate match with his late brother’s wife.
But Beatrice’s survival had tremendous import. Erik had committed adultery with Vivienne, albeit unknowingly. He had sinned, and he did not imagine that any judge would grant him clemency for his ignorance. How diligently had he sought Beatrice, after all?
So, he had soiled Vivienne twice: once in the claiming of her maidenhead, then again in committing adultery. There was no question of his embracing her again, not until he could be certain of how matters would be resolved.
Erik urged Ruari and Vivienne further back into the shadows as he considered the best course. The foursome at Blackleith’s hall, meanwhile, mounted their steeds and accepted hunting hawks upon their fists. The three squires mounted three fine palfreys and the nine steeds made no haste toward the distant forest.
“Do you think the laird will cast alms from his hall if he takes a hart?” the smith’s wife demanded.
The miller’s wife shrugged. “He will eat it all, or cast it to his dogs before he grants charity to those beneath his hand, upon that you can rely.”
“Aye, you speak the truth in that.” The two women exchanged a look of resignation, then returned to their cottages with drooping shoulders.
Erik barely glanced at Vivienne. “You will remain hidden here,” he said tersely, unwilling to risk her life. He had already led her to sin and thus endangered her very soul. He could not bring himself to look at her fully, so ridden with guilt was he. “And I will hear no protest on this matter.”
“Of course,” Vivienne said, so demure that she might have been another woman.
Erik looked at her then and was shaken by her pallor. She stood dejected, as never he had seen her, the bright sparkle of her eyes dimmed to naught. She sighed and sat down, apparently so burdened with patience that she had not the urge to do any deed at all.
Guilt stabbed through him. Clearly, she felt the weight of their sinful deed as fully as he did.
Erik did not know what to say. At the same time, he could not leave without a consoling word, for he knew not whether he would return. He took a step toward her and she averted her face, though still he saw the shimmer of her unshed tears. “I am sorry,” he said quietly. “I did not know.”
“I know,” Vivienne whispered and the first of her tears fell. “I know, just as I know that I have only my foolish trust to blame.”
“You may be many things, Vivienne Lammergeier, but you are no fool.”
She looked up through her tears and managed a tremulous smile. “I thank you for that courtesy, though I fear you see more merit than I truly possess.”
“Impossible,” Erik said and their gazes held for a potent moment. He saw her hope, he guessed what she desired of him, and he was sorely tempted to grant it to her.
But he would pledge love when he could act upon it honorably, not merely to halt a woman’s tears.
He inclined his head once in silent salute, then turned away, summoning Ruari with a flick of his fingers. “We will seize the maid’s horses, for they do not look to be competent riders,” he said. “Then I will pursue Nicholas, wheresoever he might flee.”
The older man nodded and grunted, sparing Vivienne a fatherly glance. He stepped to her side and laid a hand upon her shoulder and Erik heard his gruff words. “This tale is not over, lass, upon that you can rely. You know as well as I that the one folly that can do a soul injury is to lose hope when success is deceptively close at hand. All looks most dire just before matters turn in one’s favor, just as the night is most black before the dawn.”
“I thank you, Ruari, for your sound counsel,” Vivienne said and the older man puffed with pride.
“And a good portent it is that someone thinks my opinion worthy of merit, to be sure,” he said with forced cheer. He then strode past Erik with marked impatience, as if he had been waiting upon the younger man. He even snapped his fingers. “Come along, lad, the hunt is not begun while one lingers in conversation.”
Vivienne and Erik exchanged a glance that warmed Erik’s heart before he turned to Ruari. The two men broke into a run then, circling around the meadow while staying within the protective shadows of the forest.
A rumble of thunder echoed in the distance and the sun was swallowed finally by the dark clouds. Those clouds built ever higher and blacker in the sky overhead, and the thunder sounded again, as if it would warn Nicholas Sinclair that his reckoning came due.
Erik knew that no warning could prepare his brother for what was to come.
Sixteen
It was not like Rosamunde to feel trepidation, but she felt it to her very bones as Ravensmuir loomed high on the cliff above her ship. They approached the coast in early evening, as seldom she had before. This time, Rosamunde saw no point in subterfuge.
Indeed, she hoped that Tynan would meet her. She would have to
seek him out either way, for she had need of the ring she had returned to him to sate this vengeful spriggan.
The sailors were hushed. They could be superstitious, as Rosamunde knew, and their hesitation to serve a woman would only have been increased by the tidings that she was haunted by a malicious fairy. Padraig stood by her side, like a guardian determined to see an unpleasant duty completed by his ward.
Matters had been strained between them since Rosamunde had learned of Vivienne’s departure with Padraig’s aid. By the time she had awakened, the ship had been miles south, though, and there had been no real chance of pursuing Erik and Vivienne. Now that her temper had cooled, Rosamunde had to admit that Padraig had meant well.
That did not keep her from fretting about her niece, however.
Clouds scuttled across the sky on this day, which already was touched with rose, and the keep was silhouetted against the painted sky. Rosamunde had to admit to herself that for a pile of ancient stones, Ravensmuir had a certain dignity that prompted one’s admiration.
“We cannot even know if the spriggan is yet with us,” she complained, as irritable that she was compelled to serve the will of another as for the deed itself.
Padraig snorted. “I doubt it would abandon you now. The creature seems to doubt your intent, though I could not venture a guess as to why.”
Rosamunde ignored that comment. Padraig was welcome to end his days in Sicily, to her thinking, for he had grown overly sullen and outspoken of late.
But then, she had possessed less than her usual charm since she and Tynan had argued. The shadow fell over the ship from the cliffs that towered high above and Rosamunde shivered.
“I will go into the caverns alone,” she said abruptly. “For I do not know what will happen and would not endanger any of you.”
“I will accompany you,” Padraig said, his voice dropping in his concern.
“No, not this time.” Rosamunde turned to face the man who had sailed in her company the longest of all men. There was silver at Padraig’s temples now and lines creased his tan beside his eyes. His eyes had narrowed, though they still were a vibrant hue, and he laughed less than once he had. Rosamunde had a sudden vision of him sailing southward, upon this very ship, without her at the helm. She was oft visited by such visions and knew better than to distrust them.
She laid her hand upon his tanned forearm, knowing that this would be their last parting and feeling a measure of dread at what must lie before her. “Take the ship,” she said, her words husky. “See me ashore, then take the ship and sail south to Sicily.”
Padraig frowned. “But what of the contents?”
“Sell them, sell them wherever you can fetch a fair price for them, and keep the proceeds for your own.” Rosamunde could not look upon him. She was unaccustomed to granting such a large gift, and she feared Padraig would proudly disdain it, although it was his due.
“But…”
“I owe you no less for all your years of faithful service.”
“But the ship?”
“Sell it as well, or keep it for your own. I do not care, Padraig.” Rosamunde heaved a sigh and looked up at shadowed Ravensmuir once more. “I have had wealth and I have had love. Love is better.” She forced a smile for him, for he clearly thought her relieved of her wits, and blinked back her tears. “You will fare well enough,” she said gruffly. “I have seen it and we know that whatsoever I see, will be true.”
Padraig took an unsteady breath himself, his gaze trailing up the cliffs that confronted them. “What do you see for yourself?”
Rosamunde shook her head.
It was Padraig who looked away then, a frown furrowing his brow. “I always said that you saw farther than most, but could not see what was before your own eyes,” he said, his manner both rough and affectionate. “Be cautious, Rosamunde, though it is not in your nature. This fairy means you harm, and even if you do surrender the ring to her, her taste for vengeance may not be sated.” He lowered his voice. “And even if the fairy spares you, the Laird of Ravensmuir may not.”
“It does not matter,” Rosamunde said, knowing that to be true. “My fate lies here, as always it did, and the only course forward is through Ravensmuir’s caverns.” She turned and shook his hand lest she make the parting more difficult than it had need of being. “Farewell, Padraig. May the wind always fill your sails when you have need of it.”
To her surprise, he caught her in a tight hug, then released her abruptly. He stared at the deck, and his lips worked for a moment in silence before he found the words. The ones he finally found surprised her, as she was seldom surprised. “We have fought back to back a hundred times, Rosamunde, and always I will consider you to be my friend.” He looked at her, his expression fierce, as if daring her to argue with him. “You have been my only friend, but a friend of such merit that I had need of no other.”
“No soul ever had a friend more loyal than I found in you,” she said.
“I did,” he replied.
They both looked away then, Padraig to the sea and Rosamunde to the dark portal of the cavern. Never had they spoken such heartfelt words to each other and Rosamunde knew they would never have done so had they both not feared that this parting would be their last.
“I will wait for the tide,” Padraig said, his words hoarse. “It does not turn for a short time yet. If you have need of me, if you have need of this ship, you have but to hail me.”
Rosamunde knew she would not hail him, no matter what greeted her in the caverns. She also knew that she would not persuade Padraig of that simple truth. Her destiny awaited her here, whatever it was, and she knew it to her very marrow. She was afraid, as any soul of sense would have been afraid of such a reckoning.
But destiny could not be evaded. It would wait for her, it would turn her steps back to Ravensmuir time and again until she faced her due.
She chose to face it now.
Rosamunde and Padraig parted in hasty silence then, for there was no more to be said. She climbed down the rope ladder under the watchful gazes of the hired seamen and took up the oars in the small boat tethered to the ship. She rowed toward the dark mouth of the cavern with vigor, reveling in her own strength and the splash of the sea water upon her skin. The sea lifted her and seemed to push her forward, the sun made its surface look to be embellished with gems.
Rosamunde felt vitally alive and appreciative of the abundant gifts she had been given. She had always had good health, she had known a potent love, she had always been uncommonly fortunate. She had cheated Death a dozen times at least, she had wrought better terms from Fortune time and again, and she had never lost a man at sea.
It was only when the chill of the cliff’s shadow enfolded her that Rosamunde wondered whether her allotment of good luck had all been consumed, if she was left in this moment with no more.
It was then, for the first time, that she fancied she heard the spriggan laugh.
Darg’s was not a merry laugh, to be sure.
Rosamunde tethered her boat, not sparing a backward glance to her ship even as she strode off into the cavern. A chasm rent the path from the pool to the large cavern in these days, a chasm with dark water low in it. Rosamunde well remembered its eerie clutch from her last visit here. She lit a torch with a flint she always carried, then lifted it high as she strode further into the labyrinth.
She wondered whether the spriggan accompanied her or not, but had no way of knowing. She could not see the creature and if it matched its steps to hers, it laughed no longer.
Rosamunde moved with quick purpose, following the course she knew as well as the lines of her own hand. She would climb to Tynan’s chamber, she decided, for that was where she had left the ring and that was where she was most likely to encounter him alone. If he was not there, if the ring was not there, then she would decide upon an alternate course at that point.
Rosamunde had never been troubled by the labyrinth, though she had known many over the years who found it upsetting. She had always
thought of it as corridors, useful corridors filled with useful trinkets, a maze filled with only intriguing surprises. On this day, however, it smelled different to her. On this day, she could feel menace emanating from its walls.
Perhaps it was because the labyrinth was empty as she had never known it to be. Perhaps it was because the relics that had filled the crates stacked here previously had provided a certain mystical protection, a protection which was now gone.
Perhaps Rosamunde was simply afraid.
She walked more quickly, turning a number of corners with a lack of caution that was not characteristic of her, and strode without hesitation into the single large cavern from which most paths branched.
Rosamunde halted so quickly then that she almost stumbled.
Another torch spilled a puddle of light upon the hewn rock floor on the opposite side of the chamber. The man bearing that torch stood with his boots braced against the floor. He did not so much as move, though she felt the weight of his gaze upon her. Despite herself, her heart skipped in a most erratic fashion.
For the man who awaited her was Tynan Lammergeier, Laird of Ravensmuir, love of her life.
Vivienne had been steered false by an impetuous choice a dozen times, but never had she erred so thoroughly as this. She sat dejected in the forest near Blackleith, caring little that heavy raindrops began to fall. She drew her hood over her head, planted her chin on her fist and sighed.
Erik and Ruari had run into the forest and now could not be discerned. Nicholas and his hunting party had disappeared into the distant smudge of forest. The two discontent wives had returned to their cottages, the children had gone home and even the chickens had disappeared.
She had never felt so alone in all her days.
Worse, her fate was her own fault. Matters were muddled in truth. Had she been Madeline, all would have come together perfectly at the end, but Vivienne had never possessed Madeline’s ability to note even those details set against her. She oft under-estimated the fullness of the challenge she undertook, and in this case, her choice to pursue Erik would affect only her own fate.
All's Fair in Love and War: Four Enemies-to-Lovers Medieval Romances Page 94