“But any man can be bought.”
“Aye, but you do not look like a man who can be bought so cheaply as this,” Rafael said. He stood up with pride. “While I look like a man who will do any deed for a price.”
Better you than me.
He heard Franz’s mockery in his thoughts and recognized the counsel of his instincts. It was true that Eustache had made the wager. It was true that Rafael could let matters proceed as they would, even fearing that the younger man would be betrayed. It was true that none would hold it against him if his premonition proved to be right.
But Rafael could not do as much this time.
He borrowed Eustache’s cloak, pulled up the hood, and—after some argument—took the younger man’s place.
It was no consolation to learn that he was right.
Rafael had a stronger sense of deceit as he drew close to the arranged meeting spot. He spied a pair of shadows ahead and gave a whistle, the arranged signal. Even though he drew his dagger, keeping it hidden beneath his cloak, he was surprised.
He was ambushed from behind by at least two other men. One jumped upon his back and fitted his hands around Rafael’s neck. His grip was poor, though, and a solid jab of Rafael’s elbow into his gut loosened it more. Rafael spun and kicked him in the crotch, flinging the man’s weight aside. The other seized Rafael’s shoulder and decked him so hard that he heard his nose crack as it broke. Blood gushed from his nostrils, but Rafael jabbed his dagger into that assailant’s gut.
He was momentarily glad when the two ahead of him raced to join the fray—until he realized that they were allied with his assailants. One punched Rafael in the stomach, making him double over in pain.
The quiet fury of battle seized Rafael, along with a certitude that he had been deceived. He fought with deadly precision then. He stabbed the fourth, driving his dagger so deep that he could feel the man’s blood on his hand. The first man leaped on him again, but Rafael spun and slashed at that man’s face. When he fell back, his hands over his face, Rafael kicked him until he fell to the ground. He was satisfied when he felt his boot connect with bone. There was a crack and a moan that might have made him laugh aloud, had he not been tripped from behind.
Someone tried to seize his dagger and disarm him. Rafael gripped it tightly, unwilling to surrender the weapon, and his wrist was twisted so hard that it snapped. The dagger was wrenched from his hand, but there was naught he could do about it with his wrist broken. He felt the cold blade of a knife slide over his skin, grazing his side but not biting deep. Something hard collided with his temple and he staggered, dizzy from the blow.
In that moment of vulnerability, a cord was snapped around Rafael’s throat and pulled tight. The garrote choked him and he sputtered, as helpless as a babe. He heard his attackers chortle as he tried to get his fingers beneath the lace. He kicked and fought, struggling to escape while he could.
Against his every effort, all faded around him as he gasped for air. He was dimly aware that he hit the ground and knew someone roughly pulled off his boots, then Rafael knew no more.
His last thought was regret, certain as he was that he would soon be in Hell.
An eternity with Franz would be a torment that could not be endured.
But Rafael would have no choice in that.
Elizabeth was in her chamber, bent yet again over Finvarra’s mirror. Eleanor was calling her to the hall for the evening meal, but she did not want to put the mirror aside.
She knew that on this night, All Hallows’ Eve, the veil between the worlds was thin. It seemed that the shadows were full of ghosts to her, specters that whispered of peril and danger.
The notions of peril and danger turned Elizabeth’s thoughts to Rafael.
He was always in her thoughts, but the memory of him was brighter on some days. She had wept bitterly when her courses had come in a timely fashion, hating that she would not have a babe as a memento of their night together. Still, she knew that Rafael would have preferred that she bear no outward mark that her maidenhead had been lost.
The first of the earl’s candidates for her hand had come to the board at Kinfairlie, but Elizabeth had been able to dissuade him with her indifference. She heard tell that another was to come soon and had not yet decided whether to feign a pregnancy, just to repel his interest. It could be easily achieved, with a bundle of cloth beneath her kirtle, and once she would have done it without hesitation. In these days though, she was so cold that it was hard to care so much about any matter, much less expend any effort upon it.
Elizabeth looked into the mirror, wanting the reassurance of a glimpse of the realm of the Fae, where all was vital and vigorous, where the residents were merry, where the court was filled with dancing and music.
On this night, the mirror was dark.
Elizabeth peered more deeply into it, bending close at a flicker of movement. Her eyes widened as she saw a man assaulted by four other men. He was beset in darkness and though he fought with skill, he was quickly overwhelmed. She saw the leather lace snapped around his neck, the blood on his temple and more blood streaming from his nose. She saw his eyes widen in terror, she saw him grit his teeth and struggle to pull the lace free. She saw the cord dig deeper into his throat, saw him flail, then gasped when he suddenly stilled.
His eyes were wide open, his expression one of horror.
He did not move again.
And he was Rafael.
Elizabeth dropped the mirror from her shaking hands, unable to suppress her rising tears. Rafael! Surely it could not be so.
She looked again, only to see the men stripping her beloved of his clothes. Doubtless they would sell his cloak and boots. He was cast into a dirty little creek, his nude body discarded like so much rubbish.
He did not battle them.
He did not move.
Elizabeth knew she would never forget the sight of Rafael’s broken and bloody corpse, motionless in the rushes, touched by moonlight but otherwise forgotten. She choked back a sob.
Rafael was dead.
A missive was flung into the water after him and Elizabeth saw that her own name was written upon it. The ink ran in the water, though, washing away and blending with Rafael’s own blood. What word had he meant to send to her?
The very fact that he had carried a missive intended for her fed her conviction that he had meant to return to her.
But he was dead. She sat down, recalling his description of the Fae court, of the corpses and specters that had appeared to him each time he had been there. For him, the court of Finvarra was a vision of Hell.
Rafael would be trapped there.
He would be tormented and alone.
Elizabeth straightened with new purpose, for she knew precisely what she had to do. She and Rafael would be together, but not in the mortal realm.
She would follow him to Hell.
Rafael dreamed of an unfamiliar court. He knew he had never sat in this hall, never even glimpsed it before, but the familiar man who presided over its high table told him where it must be.
Aye, it was Alexander Lammergeier in the place of honor, his wife, Eleanor, upon his left hand. There were children aplenty but Rafael knew this must be Kinfairlie. Rafael identified Malcolm and Catriona, also sharing the board at this particular meal, as well as Vera rocking Avery. He saw Elizabeth and was shocked by her pallor. He had thought her haunted when first he had seen her, but on this night, she looked to be in mourning. She toyed with her food and was so thin that she must have eaten little recently.
Had his departure done this to Elizabeth?
Rafael did not want to believe it. He had not wanted her to have false hope, but that would have been better than the complete lack of hope she seemed to have in this vision. He had never seen her in despair and did not wish to see it again.
Was this vision of the future? The present or the past?
The way Catriona’s hand rested on her belly, just slightly rounded, indicated that it could not be the past. S
he must carry Malcolm’s seed, and Rafael was glad for his former comrade.
But Elizabeth looked like a lost soul, and the sight made him ache with a longing to tempt her smile.
Or better yet, to bring color to her lips with an ardent kiss.
Catriona leaned forward, addressing Alexander. “Since we are at Kinfairlie, I should like to hear the tale of the red, red rose.”
The red, red rose. The dark king had mentioned such a thing. Rafael listened avidly.
In his vision, Malcolm chuckled. “Aye, show us the mark upon the floor, Alexander.”
“Nay, Alexander must tell the tale so that we know the full meaning of the mark,” Eleanor said.
“You all know it as well as I do,” that man protested, but a chorus of dissent greeted his words. Elizabeth’s eldest brother raised a hand for the company to fall silent, laughing as he did so. Alexander straightened his tabard and rose to his feet, taking a last sip of his wine before he began. They had made merry on this night, Rafael could see, and he noted again their uncommon confidence in their security. “You must all be kind to me on this night, for I have not told this tale in years.”
“Not since you encouraged a certain maiden to sleep in the highest chamber of this tower,” Malcolm said. At Catriona’s confusion, he smiled. “He induced our sister Vivienne to sleep in the high chamber with this tale.”
“Do I sense that he had a scheme?” Catriona asked.
“A trick, more like,” Eleanor said with a shake of her head. “Had I been in residence, it would never have occurred.”
“It all ended well enough,” Alexander said in his own defense and they laughed in easy agreement. “And so, a tale!” The company cheered and settled themselves in anticipation. Cups were topped up and the serving women darted between the tables to ensure that all had what they desired. Elizabeth glanced up for the first time, though still she looked pale and disinterested.
Had she been ill? Rafael’s innards clenched at the notion.
Alexander raised his voice. “First I must regale you with a bit of family history. Most of you are aware that Kinfairlie was razed to the ground in our great-grandmother’s youth.” He lifted his cup in salute to Elizabeth. “And the youngest of my sisters was named for that lady, Mary Elise of Kinfairlie.”
There was a patter of polite applause before he continued. “In time, the holding was returned by the crown to Ysabella, the daughter of Mary Elise for she had wed Merlyn Lammergeier, Laird of Ravensmuir. Roland, our father, was the son of Merlyn and Ysabella, as was Tynan, later Laird of Ravensmuir himself. Our grandfather Merlyn rebuilt Kinfairlie from the very ground, so that Roland could become its laird when he was of age. And so it was that Roland and Catherine came to Kinfairlie newly wedded. There were already tales told about this holding and about that chamber.” He paused and surveyed the rapt company. “It was already whispered that Kinfairlie kissed the lips of the realm of the Fae.”
A ripple of delight passed through the company, and Rafael shivered even as Alexander continued.
“The first castellan of Kinfairlie had a daughter, a lovely maiden who was most curious. Since there were only servants in the keep before Roland’s arrival, this damsel was permitted to wander wheresoever she desired within the walls. And so it was that she explored the chamber at the top of the tower. There are three windows in that chamber and all of them look toward the sea.
“Though the view is fine, the chamber is cursed cold, for the openings were wrought too large for glass and the wooden shutters pose no barrier to the wind, especially when a storm is rising. That was why no one had spent much time in the room. This maiden, however, had done so and she had noted that one window did not grant the view that it should have done.
“Clouds crossed the sky in that window, but never were framed by the others. Uncommon birds could be spied only in the one window, and the sea never quite seemed to be the same viewed through that window as through the others. The difference was subtle, and a passing glance would not reveal any discrepancy, but the maiden became convinced that this third window was magical. She wondered whether it looked into the past, or into the future, or into the realm of the Fae, or into some other place altogether.” Alexander paused and spared a pointed glance at Elizabeth. “And so, like so many intrepid maidens of my acquaintance, she resolved that she would discover the truth.”
Elizabeth barely glanced her brother’s way, and that man frowned as he sipped his wine. Rafael was relieved that he was not the sole one to have noticed the change in her.
“The maiden slept in the chamber for several nights and when she was asked what she had seen, she only smiled. She insisted that she had seen naught, but her smile…her smile hinted at a thousand mysteries.” Alexander shrugged. “And then there was no opportunity to ask her, for on the morning after she had slept in that chamber for three nights, the damsel could not be found.”
Vera shuddered in obvious disapproval at this detail, her gaze falling upon Elizabeth.
“I do not have to tell you that they searched every nook and cranny for the maiden. Though they fair tore Kinfairlie apart, there was no sign of her. In fact, she was never seen again.”
“But...” someone in the company prompted.
“But—” Alexander acknowledged with a smile and a raised finger “—on the sill of one window—I suspect I know which one it was—on the morning of the maiden’s disappearance, the castellan’s wife found a single rose. It appeared to be red, as red as blood, but as soon as she lifted it in her hands, it began to pale. By the time she carried it to the hall, the rose was white, and no sooner had the castellan seen it, than it began to melt. It was wrought of ice, and in a matter of moments, it was no more than a puddle of water upon the floor.”
Alexander left the high table and strode to the middle of the hall. The children squirmed from their seats and followed him. He had a few benches moved, then pointed to a spot on the floor. It shimmered beneath his finger, as if stained by some substance that none could have named.
“It was here that the water fell,” Alexander said softly, his words carrying over the rapt silence of the company. “And when an old woman working in the kitchens spied the mark and heard the tale of the rose, she cried out in dismay. It seems that there is an old tale of Fae lovers claiming mortal brides, that the portal between their world and ours is at Kinfairlie. A Fae suitor can peer through the portal, though they all know they should not, and he could fall in love with a mortal maiden he glimpses there.”
Finvarra, the dark king. Finvarra, who had his gaze locked upon Elizabeth and had crowed of his intent to claim her by Midwinter. Was Elizabeth’s manner the result of some trickery of the dark king? She looked sepulchral, to be sure, as if she could easily take a place alongside Franz.
The notion troubled Rafael deeply. He had expected that he might die, with his quest unfulfilled, but had never believed Elizabeth to be in peril. Too late he understood that her confidence had done her disservice, for she had been sure the choice would be hers whether she went to Finvarra. Worse, her confidence had fed Rafael’s own surety that she would be safe until his return.
Rafael eyed Elizabeth. He sensed that something had quickened within her at Alexander’s reciting of this tale, though her pose had not changed. She kept her gaze locked on her hands, but he had the feeling that she paid closer attention than the others realized.
He recalled Finvarra’s claim that the portals at Ravensmuir and Kinfairlie would close soon, and seal shut forever. He wished he was not so far away, for he felt a dreadful portent of doom.
Alexander smiled at the children as he continued with what he clearly believed to be a mere fable. “And the bride price a smitten Fae suitor leaves when he claims that bride for his own is a single red, red rose, a rose that is not truly a rose, but a Fae rose wrought of ice.” He scuffed the floor with his toe. “Though its form does not endure, the mark of its magic is never truly lost.”
There was a moment of silence at th
e end of the tale, then the company broke into applause. The children cheered and Alexander scooped up the youngest one, urging them all back to the high table. Discussion broke out in the hall, but Rafael noted how Elizabeth straightened with purpose. There was a gleam of determination in her eye, but she excused herself demurely and left the hall. Though the women watched her go with concern, not a one followed her.
That, Rafael feared, was an error of the greatest magnitude.
Worse, he could do naught to set matters to rights.
There was naught in the realm of mortals for Elizabeth any longer, not with Rafael dead. She would be with him, as she could not be otherwise. She went to her own chamber and donned her fur-lined cloak, then took the mirror so it would not be discovered in her absence.
The prospect of being with Rafael again encouraged her as little else could have done, and she climbed the stairs to the top of Kinfairlie’s tower with new purpose. She had a torch to light her way, though she could scarce feel the heat from it. The cold seemed to be more intense to her this winter.
She cast a glance behind herself, then bent to pick the lock with a pin from her hair. She was beyond glad that Rosamunde had taught her this skill, for none would discover what she did in time to intervene. She smiled when the tumblers rolled. There was some resistance to her attempt to push the door open, and Elizabeth was astonished to discover that the chamber was knee-deep in snow. The snow had drifted against the door, driven there by the wind, and though it was light and filled with sparkles, still it was deep enough to make a barrier.
She did not put a blade of steel in the threshold, nor even did she carry one, for Elizabeth had no plan to return. She would give Finvarra no easy way to expel her, either.
She strode through the snow, scattering it as she walked.
There were three windows facing the sea, just as in Alexander’s tale, three large windows on the opposite side of the chamber. The outer two were shuttered, though the wind made a whistling noise as if blew between the wooden slats. The middle window, the one reputed to open to the realm of the Fae, had no shutters. It was a vast square opening in the stone wall, and one through which both the snow drifted and the starlight fell. The night sky beyond looked too dark to be a normal sky and the stars were too thick in its expanse.
All's Fair in Love and War: Four Enemies-to-Lovers Medieval Romances Page 128