Claire Delacroix (28 page)

A king’s ransom was spread before me, sufficient gems for a diadem in a sack I could hide within my hand. I played with them, making patterns upon the dark velvet, watching the light toy in their depths, counting them. Eventually, I gathered them all back into the sack once more and knotted it tightly.

I reached into the box for the one item that was my own. The letter folded to softness with its secret contents had been my sole addition to this box of treasures. I had tucked it within on the morning that Fitz entrusted this box to me, for it was the only thing in our home that I had needed to bring.

It was the true treasure for me within this box, for it was the last remaining clue to my mother’s many secrets. She had died with a hundred things in her heart, not the least of which was the name of the father - or fathers - of Mavella and myself.

To be born a bastard, to not know the name of one’s own father, is a circumstance to which a woman may become accustomed but one which she will always hope to see changed. I desired nothing from my father - no coin, no name, no legacy - I wished only to know who he was. I wanted to look into the faces of brethren and see similarities, I wanted the one detail of my own existence that had been denied to me.

I knew that I would likely never know it - my mother, after all, had been disinclined to share my father’s name, for whatever reason. Her death might well have meant that no one alive knew who my father had been. Perhaps she had never told the man. Perhaps she did not even know herself.

Perhaps it was folly to hope that this letter held the secret I most wanted to know.

Perhaps it was a blessing that I could not read its contents and be disappointed by whatever truth it told.

I unfolded the letter carefully and spread it across the bed, running a fingertip across it with a reverence undiminished. The letter was filled with dense black script from edge to edge, on both front and back, the ink worn from the creases folded and unfolded countless times.

I had never even known of its existence until I plucked it from my mother’s chemise when dressing her for burial, and had been frustrated at intervals since by my inability to decipher its contents. That she had treasured it was sufficient for me.

My experience with Merlyn’s missive had left me too hesitant to pay to have a missive read aloud in the market. I had never even told Mavella of it. It seemed cruel to wave before her what might be evidence of the one matter we most wished to know, yet to not be able to unveil its secrets. I would much rather present my sister with an answer than a clue.

I bent and inhaled deeply, savoring the last vestige of my mother’s scent trapped in the paper. Already the cedar scent of Merlyn’s box consumed the last of it. I closed my eyes and could almost feel her presence beside me, the weight of her hand upon my shoulder, the love in her eyes as she smiled, the laughter that ran beneath her every word.

My mother who defied convention and did not care.

My mother whose merry nature lightened any burden.

My mother who would have done anything for us, anything save tell us our fathers’ names.

Ravensmuir was silent as I packed the treasures carefully away. No sound carried from beyond the solar but the relentless litany of the waves cascading upon the shore. I sat awake long into the night, half-convinced that Merlyn still would come to me.

He did not. I fell asleep just before the dawn, disappointed yet again by my spouse’s mysterious absence.

* * *

I am on the small porch of Kinfairlie’s chapel, the spring sunlight spilling around my feet. It is my nuptial day. The villagers are gathered near, my mother smiles radiantly beside me, the man who will be my lord and husband holds fast to my trembling hand. Someone has cast a wreath of cowslips over my head and it slips askew, the yellow blossoms bouncing in the periphery of my vision. I guess that I am shaking, given the trembling of the flowers, but Merlyn is as steady as a rock.

The priest is displeased. We have made our vows despite the lack of banns and his seething disapproval. Coin has only somewhat appeased him. Now, he has asked for the ring.

We do not have one.

“Surely it is of little import,” Merlyn says.

“Surely it is an ill portent,” the fat priest mutters.

I look up and Merlyn smiles, his eyes twinkling, his tan crinkling. He looks undaunted by portents. “Such is the price of impulsiveness,” he whispers for my ears alone and I fight a smile that the priest will deem irreverent.

“I cannot pronounce you wedded,” the priest complains. I have the sense that he finds pleasure in denying the Laird of Ravensmuir his will on such a detail. “I will not pronounce you wedded.”

“Then you shall have a ring.” Merlyn pulls a silver ring from the smallest finger of his left hand. He winks as he pushes the considerable piece of jewelry over my knuckle, onto the middle finger of my left hand. It is still loose on my largest finger and we share a smile.

I have never seen such a ring. Three stars and three words are carved into its surface. It is a heavy ring - it nearly fills my knuckle - and its surface is polished to a gleam from years of being worn on Merlyn’s hand.

“A family piece,” my mother says with satisfaction. “It is good luck to have tradition on your finger.”

“My own mother wore it,” Merlyn agrees, his gaze searching mine. “It is all I have of hers.”

I look down at the ring, my heart in my throat, understanding that this man I barely know has surrendered to me something precious to him, and am touched by his trust.

“I pronounce...”

“Not yet.” Merlyn bends his head to mine as the priest flutters impatiently. Merlyn ignores the priest as he touches each name engraved upon the ring in slow succession. “Three names with a star between each,” he whispers. “A star like the star of Bethlehem.”

“Three kings,” I guess and Merlyn smiles.

“Here is the name of Melchior.”

My fingertip trails behind his, touching each name after he has touched it. I cannot read the words, but I see the difference between the marks and resolve to memorize which is which.

“The smallest of stature,” I say, for I know the tale of these kings as well as any other. “The King of Nubia, he who brought gold to the savior’s birthplace.”

“And here is the name of Balthazar.”

“The King of Chaldea, he who brought incense.”

“And here is the name of Jasper.”

“The tallest of all of them, a towering black Ethiope and King of Tarshish. He who brought myrrh.” I gaze at my wealthy spouse in awe. “Surely this is not a relic wrought by these kings?”

“It is not more than a token made to invoke their protection.” Merlyn sobers, then presses his lips to my brow. His voice drops very low, so low that even I have to strain to hear it. “For those moments - may they never come - when you have need of my protection and I cannot aid you.”

I hold his gaze, fearful of the portent of his words. The priest raises his hand to bless our match and pronounce us wedded, but I see only the warning in Merlyn’s dark eyes.

The chapel fades suddenly into the moor with the startling ability of dreams. Dark clouds obstruct the sun as they did not on that long-ago day. The moon is in the sky and it is night and I am abruptly alone on the moor, alone without so much as a cloak.

Merlyn is gone.

My mother is gone. The villagers are gone. Even the priest has disappeared.

The ring, though, is heavy on my finger. I turn in confusion, seeking some hint of where I am and why. Hoof beats echo and I am frightened, fearful as to who comes and what message he brings. Clouds scuttle across the moon, enfolding it in a dark embrace. Ravens shriek into the rising wind and far, far in the distance, a child cries out in terror.

It is Tynan and I know it, know that only I can save him. I run toward the sound of his cry, though I can see nothing, no hint of where he might be. I fear that an omen comes to me, a vision of Tynan’s death, a demand that I save him with my deeds.

For it is I, I and my deeds, responsible for his peril.

I toss in my sleep, knotting the linens about myself, anxious to waken and act. The nightmare snares me, holds me fast, tightens my chest and wraps about me as securely as a spider’s web. I hear myself whimper and moan, but am powerless to stop. The child cries again, the sound further away, and I know that I will be too late.

And then, unexpectedly, a hand lands upon my brow. The touch is warm and soothing. Gentle fingers stroke my face, brushing the terror away so easily that it might not have been real. A man’s whisper calms me, eases my trepidation.

I know whose fingers these are. I know the smell and the weight of this caress, I know the strength of it. I know the barren left knuckle as well as my own burdened one.

My husband’s fingers slide over me in an endless caress, awakening another fire beneath my flesh and one less easily sated. I feel the heat of my lover join me, his muscled length stretched beside me from shoulder to toe. I feel the touch of a reassuring kiss upon my shoulder, I feel his hand slide over my breast.

And I turn to him, knowing how best to be rid of a nightmare.

In some corner of my thoughts, I fear that I lie alone in the great Lammergeier bed on a chilly winter night. I keep my eyes closed tightly, evading the truth. In darkness and solitude, I can confess my yearning for my spouse, a yearning to which I dare not give voice outside of dreams.

In the blackness of the night, I moan my husband’s name.

* * *

December 29

Feast Day of Saint Marcellus,

Saint Evroul

and Saint Thomas à Becket

* * *

XI

A scream startled me to wakefulness.

My eyes flew open as the raven on the high window ledge shrieked again. I saw the shadow of its outspread wings against the opalescent light of the morning, then it croaked and bobbed its head.

Silver flashed, tumbling from its beak into the chamber.

Something tinkled upon the floor. The bird craned its neck, seeking the lost prize in the shadows of the solar below.

I leapt from the bed, half believing the massive bird would invite itself into the room. The small item glinted in the pale light as it rolled, shone as it came to rest. The bird crooked its head inquisitively, its eyes bright. It cried out again and flapped its wings, but I snatched up the prize, then stared at it in astonishment.

It was a ring.

But not just any ring. No, no other ring could curdle my blood as this one did. It was the ring that Merlyn had taken from his hand in Kinfairlie church and slipped onto my own finger.

The ring that I had left in the midst of this very bed five long years before - a silver circle left on indigo that could not have been missed, a potent symbol of my rejection of all facets of our marriage - that ring lay once again in the palm of my hand.

My fingers closed instinctively over it. I looked up at the raven. Where had the bird found the ring?

It held my regard for an eerie moment, then cried out as it took flight. Its silhouette faded quickly into the pale sky, any answers disappearing with it.

Had Merlyn donned the ring again? I closed my eyes and willed myself to remember, but I had not seen it upon his hand of late. Had it fallen from his grip at some point? Had he given it to another woman who rejected him and it?

Or had he flung the ring from this window in disgust all those days and nights ago? The bird might well have plucked it from the moor simply because it shone, as birds are wont to do.

I turned it, looking at the familiar names etched upon it. How strange the timing, how odd that the bird would find the ring only after I returned to Ravensmuir. How odd that I had dreamed of it just the night before.

It might have been a missive.

Merlyn’s voice resonated suddenly in my thoughts: “For those moments - may they never come - when you have need of my protection and I cannot aid you.”

And again.

“You, chère, of all people, should know that I protect what is mine own.”

The hairs on my nape prickled.

My mother had oft said that ravens were uncommon birds, that they had not only the intellect of a bright child, but an ability to pierce the veil that concealed the future from our gaze.

Why would Merlyn not be able to aid me? And from what - or who - did I need protection?

I shivered. I did not care then for whatever worldly truth might be behind this event - I was convinced that the raven brought a warning from Merlyn to me. He was gone, and I might face danger.

I meant to heed it.

I heard hoof beats again, racing hoof beats, hoof beats that came from no realm of dreams. I listened, discerned the sounds of two running steeds, neither destriers nor ponies. They came closer.

I climbed atop a trunk to look and spied two riders fast approaching, their palfreys fairly devouring the road in their haste. It was barely dawn and they must have ridden during the night from wherever they had come, a marvel in and of itself. Only fools or desperate men rode at night, when bandits were abroad.

They seemed to be racing each other on the long straight road to Ravensmuir’s gates, and the hot breath of the horses made clouds in the morning chill. As they drew nearer, I saw that their colors were different.

I pulled back, hiding in the shadows though I knew that none would note me here. I needed no scrying glass to guess their identities. They were boys, I could see as much, and their competition and differing colors told me the rest.