Suzanne Robinson (2 page)

But Galen had needed a refuge, and Durance Guarde had popped into his thoughts like a cuckoo invading the nest of an unsuspecting bird. Once the image of the isolated ruin had lodged his thoughts, he couldn’t rid himself of it. Why was he so drawn to the place? It wasn’t just that Durance Guarde was deserted and provided privacy. And why did it make him so wary? Could it be that the old legend troubled him? Great evil had been wrought in this place.

No, it didn’t make sense, for at the same time he felt safe at Durance Guarde. He felt comforted here, and ever since he’d arrived he’d experienced a strange sense of excitement, a tingling expectation. But then the excitement would vanish as suddenly as it had come upon him.

Still restless, Galen rose and returned to the window, weary with trying to unravel mysteries. There were only two things of which he was certain—he needed refuge from court to make sense of this burden of a vision that wouldn’t leave, and that refuge had to be Durance Guarde. Certainly the reputation of the place didn’t frighten him. His gift made him too familiar with the mysterious side of life to allow old legends to scare him. The stories of Durance Guarde were told to frighten children and ignorant peasants. He’d been in more battles than he cared to remember, and in them lay real hells, and horrors to make the devil scream. No, ghosts didn’t frighten him. Besides, the events here had taken place so long ago. Galen leaned against the wall beside the window and tried to recall what he knew.

A line of hills separated the Stafford and de Marlowe lands, and upon the tallest of these sat the ruined castle of Durance Guarde. It was said that there had been a fortification at Durance Guarde since Roman times, and that in Saxon times a timber structure replaced the old Roman fort. Berengar de Villard, a descendent of the Norman invaders, built a new stone keep and
defensive wall around the year 1220. And that was when the trouble started.

More outlaw than nobleman, Berengar grew rich by robbing those who passed through his demesne. For years he attacked wealthy merchants and minor nobles, robbed them and often killed them. Sometimes he dragged them back to Durance Guarde and threw them in the dungeon, where they remained in windowless cells and oubliettes, forgotten, until they starved to death. His favorite evening amusement was torturing his prisoners.

Berengar slaughtered a party escorting a beautiful girl, Lady Rowena Seve, to her betrothal. He abducted Rowena, violated her and held her prisoner for long days, which stretched into weeks, and Rowena became increasingly desperate. One terrible night Berengar and his men were celebrating a rich haul. The castle fell silent when everyone passed out from drink, and Berengar spent most of the night using Rowena. When her captor fell into a drunken stupor, Rowena rose up from the bed, stole his dagger and stabbed him. She missed his heart and Berengar managed to pull the dagger from his shoulder. In a rage he chased Rowena up the stairs of the tower in which she’d been held. Driven to madness by her ordeal, with Berengar right behind her, she raced to the roof and plunged to her death.

It is said that a few weeks later Berengar woke to hear the sound of a woman weeping in the tower at night, just as Rowena used to weep when she was
alive. Soon Berengar was too afraid to sleep in his room, and he moved to one in the larger tower from which Rowena’s Tower projected. There he didn’t hear the weeping, and he rested well. He never used his dagger again, and locked it in the treasury in another tower.

Nevertheless, people still heard the crying if they went near Rowena’s chamber. Berengar continued his evil ways, growing even more drunken and violent when people began to see a glowing, ephemeral image of a young woman on the roof of the smaller tower late at night. A year passed, and the first anniversary of Rowena’s death arrived. Berengar drank heavily and refused to go near Rowena’s Tower.

Late that night, he fell into a drunken sleep in his own tower, only to wake to the sound of weeping. There at the foot of his bed stood Rowena’s glowing figure. She held a dagger and stabbed at him. Berengar shrieked hysterically, ran from the room in a panic and up the tower stairs, with the ghostly image hurtling after him.

He was last seen alive screaming on the roof of the tower, by a guard standing below who’d been roused by the noise. The guard saw Berengar enveloped in a shining glow just before he tumbled to his death. When the guard rushed to him, he found Berengar’s dagger, which was supposedly locked away, embedded in his heart.

After that, Berengar’s men deserted Durance Guarde. No one would live there. Those who ventured
into the castle ended up dead, including a wandering minstrel upon whom a stone from the wall fell. Berengar’s son Odo tried to pull the castle down. But when the men sent to do the job tried to destroy the tower where Rowena died, they all suddenly fell ill of the plague. No one tried to complete the destruction of Durance Guard ever again.

Galen scowled at the moon as he remembered how long ago poor Rowena had died. Over two hundred years had passed. There were fewer noblemen like Berengar in the kingdom, and a new age of discovery was dawning over the world. Since its abandonment a dense and gloomy forest had grown up around the remnants of the once mighty castle. But its evil reputation lived on in legend and tales told around kitchen fires in villages at night. The local people thought that the ghost of Lady Rowena still haunted the deserted and crumbling towers, ready to pounce on unwary visitors.

Galen sighed and went back to bed. Mayhap he was being presumptuous. There might indeed be unsettled business here. What did he know of the power of a spirit, the spirit of a lady whose life had been cut short by horror?

“No,” he said as he crawled back into bed, “I’ve seen no ghosts, no eerie lights or glowing shades.”

Durance Guarde was simply an old fortress, decaying and shrouded with vines, crumbling to dust with each passing year. The place was deserted and
dull, and these were the very reasons he’d been drawn to it in the first place.

Later that morning Honor Jennings rode at the head of a retinue crossing de Marlowe land on its way to her father’s home, Castle Stafford. Her pale face was surrounded by the traditional widow’s barb. The white linen that covered her hair fit close to her chin, from which it fell in vertical pleats. In addition, she wore a white veil over the barb and a black one over that. Her gown, mantle, and boots were all black. On the third finger of her right hand she wore the plain gold ring of the Order of Vowesses.

Vowesses, as widows, pledged to remain single and celibate until death, although they retained the freedom and privileges of a married woman. Honor had been a widow for over four years. Married to Aymer Jennings when she was fourteen, she had few good memories of their time together. The match had been arranged, and Aymer had never bothered to hide his disappointment that his bride had turned out to be a rather plain creature with outlandish copper hair and a habit of tripping over her own gown.

A few months after they’d married, Aymer had consoled himself by leaving Honor at home while he went to court to advance the fortunes of his family. His accidental death had been a shock to his wife, but had not grieved his younger brother
or the rest of his family. Ever mindful of Honor’s rich dower rights, they hadn’t been in a hurry to rid themselves of Aymer’s widow.

By her remaining unattached, they could control the wealth she’d brought to the family as well as the dower rights. Honor had been happy to go her own way, allowing the Jennings to think what they wished. She refused all suitors, which pleased her relatives. Months passed into years in this nebulous manner, but recently the Jennings heir, Isidore, became alarmed at the attentions paid to her by several extremely persistent noblemen. He decided to assure himself of Honor’s wealth by marrying her to an impecunious Jennings relative. Honor had refused to comply with his plan. Isidore insisted to the point that Honor became fearful that he would resort to force. So she had become a vowess instead.

Honor moved her chin back and forth, then scratched beneath the barb. It had itched since this morning when she’d donned it and the widow’s weeds for the ceremony at which she took her vows. Absently she rubbed her mare’s neck, then fidgeted with the two veils, leaving a streak of dirt on the white one. She hadn’t yet noticed the hole she’d torn in the hem of her gown when she’d mounted.

At the moment, she was glancing covertly at one of the two noblemen who escorted her. On her right, Sir Lionel Titchwell was scowling at one of her men-at-arms. Like half a dozen others, he’d
been furious at the news that—after four years of widowhood—she was to become a vowess rather than remarry. He coveted Castle Stafford and her inheritance. Since Sir Lionel wasn’t above abducting her and forcing a marriage, Honor had demanded a large escort, much begrudged by her brother-in-law. To sweeten the incentive, Honor had promised to go home a week early, and Isidore had finally assigned an escort.

Lord Isidore had inherited his brother Aymer’s lands and title after Aymer died childless. One snowy winter day while Aymer and Honor were visiting Castle Stafford, he’d gone riding along the river Eske a few miles from the castle. When Aymer failed to return, Sir Walter and his steward, Baldwin Trune, had taken a search party to look for him. Eventually they found a steep, muddy bank upon which they could see signs that Aymer’s horse had lost his footing. Baldwin discovered a piece of Aymer’s tunic caught on a half-submerged rock.

For days they searched the river, dragging it for miles in either direction, to no avail. When Aymer failed to appear after many months, he was declared dead, and Honor had been left alone among her husband’s indifferent, avaricious relatives. Honor had always suspected Isidore would have married her himself in spite of the church’s objections to men marrying their dead brothers’ wives, but he already had a wife. At the very least, he wanted her dower lands. So she made a bargain
with him. He could have the lands, and she would become a vowess and go home.

Upon hearing this proposal, Isidore finally realized Honor wasn’t ever going to comply with his plans for her hand or her fortune. By then he would have sent an army with her to get her off Jennings property and reclaim those lands. It had been a price willingly paid, for Honor was not happy to remain near Isidore, who was openly hostile to her and now considered her a burden. Yes, it had been a wise bargain.

“And I’m right well content with my decision,” Honor said to herself.

“My lady?” the man to her left said.

“Oh, naught but daydreams, my lord.” Honor inclined her head politely at Lord Andrew Swan, her other persistent suitor.

Lord Andrew had spent the two days since they’d set out casting calculating glances, not at the men-at-arms, but at the silver bosses on the saddles and reins of the knights, at the chests of plate, jewels, and clothing and at the carts of furniture. He was a wealthy man, but always felt poor unless he was increasing his riches. Neither he nor Sir Lionel had more than glanced at Honor before making offers for her hand.

“By my troth, Lady Honor,” said Lord Andrew, “I cannot believe you’ve become a vowess, and I’m sorely vexed thereby.”

“I’m sure you don’t mean to be blasphemous,” Honor said gently.

Lord Andrew reddened and crossed himself. “Blessed be God, I do not.”

Honor gave him a beatific smile that brightened to ecstasy. “Look you, my lords. That giant hawthorn marks the boundary between the Stafford and de Marlowe lands. I’m home!” She reined in her mare and bowed in the saddle. “This is where we part, and I thank you both most heartily for your care of me.”

Sir Lionel narrowed his eyes. “I see no escort from your father. Mayhap we should remain until Sir Walter’s men appear.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” Honor said hastily. She gestured toward the four knights who formed the vanguard of their procession. “Lord Isidore’s men will do that, but I pray you accept my deepest gratitude for your chivalry.”

Chewing his lip in frustration, Sir Lionel bowed and pulled his horse out of line. Lord Andrew dragged his eyes from the wagon that carried Honor’s waiting woman, her cook, and a casket of jewels. He saluted his would-be bride and without a farewell trotted after Sir Lionel. Honor waited until they were out of sight before she dismounted and led her horse off the road to stand beneath the ancient hawthorn. A few moments later Isidore’s chief knight joined her.

Honor nodded to him. “God assoil your soul, good Sir Frederic. We’ve reached my father’s demesne, and I shall await his men here. You may begin your journey home at once.”

“Impossible, my lady.”

“I pray you, good sir, don’t dispute with me. Look.” Honor pointed to a line of mounted men crossing a stream that wandered down from a line of forest-covered hills. “My escort is here, so there’s little need to tarry.”

“I must—”

“No, you mustn’t.” Honor took off her gloves and flapped them at the man. “Go away! I’m done with Jennings affairs and Jennings men. Oh, now you’ve made me lose my temper, may God forgive me. And I’ve only just taken my vows.”

“Forgive me, lady. I didn’t mean to.”

“Then save me from a more grievous transgression and go away, Sir Frederic.”

The knight hesitated.

Honor rolled her eyes. “I can vouchsafe that my father’s men will be here before you’re out of sight.”

“Very well.” Sir Frederic took her hand and kissed it. “May God protect you, good lady.”

“And you, good sir.”

The Jennings escort separated from Honor’s retinue and went slowly down the path. Sir Frederic paused at a turn and watched until the Stafford banner appeared through the trees. Honor waved her gloves at him. He kicked his destrier into a trot, and he and his men disappeared. Honor counted to one hundred. Down the road her father’s men approached.

“Ninety-nine, one hundred.”

Gripping her veils, Honor tore them from her head. She ripped the barb off and flung it away. A cheer erupted from her lips as it flew into the limbs of the hawthorn. Whirling around, she danced in front of her mare, who backed away from her with pricked ears. Honor laughed and twirled around. Her hair came loose from the net confining it, and it tumbled in copper waves down her shoulders. As she danced, her waiting woman scrambled down from her wagon and hurried over to her.