A Rose in Winter (72 page)

"Ye feel no worse than I do, lad, but 'twas the only way!"

"You sold her then! You sold her now! Your own daughter!"

"Not mine!" Avery shouted, half crouching as he tried to make the stubborn lad understand.

"What?!" Farrell stepped close until only a handsbreadth distance separated their noses. His eyes, so much like the elder's, blazed with fury.

"She was never mine! Only some Irish rebel's brat!"

"She is my sister!"
Farrell shouted.

"Only half... only half sister!" Avery insisted. "Don't ye ken, lad? Yer mother bedded down with an Irish bastard and got herself with a wee one! Erienne is his! Not mine!"

Farrell's rage took on new heights.
"My mother was not that kind!"

"Oh, she married the bastard, all right," Avery cajoled. "But still, don't ye see, lad, you and me... we're blood kin. Ye're mine!"

The younger's lips turned in contempt. "You sold us all—my mother, my sister... me—all of us into poverty with your love for drinking and gaming."

"I raised ye on me knee," Avery protested. "And I've shown ye a wealthy share o' the good life. I've carried ye home in the wee hours when ye were too sotted ter stand."

"In the past months Erienne has done more for me than you ever thought of doing!" Farrell charged. "She gave me understanding ... and love... and the will to stand on my own two feet... and the strength to stop feeling sorry for myself and blaming others for my state!"

"Ye take her side against yer own true father?" Avery barked.

"I will no longer claim you as kin!" FarreU's voice softened and grew deadly calm as he continued. "I will move out of this house and take up residence in York, where I will be married shortly. You, sir, will not be welcomed to either the wedding or my home. Now I will leave you to whatever ends you might find."

"But, lad, ye see I need a horse. Lord Saxton will be comin'..."

Farrell nodded. "Aye! Lord Saxton will be coming. Were I you, sir, I'd find a deep, deep hole to hide in." He wheeled about on a heel and as he strode through the kitchen, he hurled back over his shoulder, "Good day, sir!"

Avery filled his belly, donned his boots, and drew a coat over his rumpled garments. He tugged the collar high to hide his face and stomped out of the cottage, the thin purse tucked safely in his pocket. He carried with him a jug of ale and the balance of the pork wrapped in a cloth tucked beneath his arm, not knowing when he would be able to return to his home. The day had grown blustery, crisp, and dark, as if some menacing omen had sapped the warmth of the spring sun, though the hour was only slightly past noon.

He wandered aimlessly for a while, then went to stand on the bridge. When he was certain no one watched, he crossed over and quickly ducked off the roadway. He doubled back under the span and entered the heavy brush that bordered the water, pausing only briefly at the spot where they had found Timmy Sears. The hackles rose on the back of his neck, for the word was out that Christopher Seton had done the killing. If that were so and the wench carried his child, the Yankee might come looking for the one who had sold her. It gave Avery more reason to worry.

It was said that old Ben Mose had built himself a crude shelter somewhere in the marshy tangle of undergrowth above the town. If he could find it, he could wait out the wrath of both Seton and Saxton and still be handy for a summons from Talbot or the sheriff.

Farrell Fleming hurled his steed around the last sharp bend before Saxton Hall and prodded him on with thumping heels. The coach stood in the lane before the manor, and the horses were well lathered from the breakneck pace that Tanner must have demanded of them. The landau was being brought around by a footman, while Keats ran to the larger conveyance and climbed into the seat. Taking up the reins, he urged the four-in-hand toward the stables, making room for the landau in front of the door.

Farrell hauled back on his own reins as he drew alongside, and his feet struck the ground almost before the steed had stopped. He threw his body toward the portal and flung it open, nearly plowing Paine over as the servant reached to open the door for his master.

"Lord Saxton..." Farrell gasped, seeing the one he sought hop-skipping across the hall toward the tower. Bundy and Tanner were puffing along in his wake, trying to keep up with the agitated man.

"I don't have time now, Farrell," Lord Saxton said bluntly, slowing his stride only slightly. "Erienne did not return with the coach when she went to see your father, and I am concerned for her safety. I must go."

Bundy and Tanner managed to maneuver past and hurried tb mount to the driver's seat of the landau. Lord Saxton stepped to follow, but the younger man caught his arm.

"She's not there, my lord."

"What?" The master of the manor halted and the blank mask pivoted with eerie effect to stare at the younger man. "What did you say?" His voice had lost its customary hoarseness but still echoed hollowly from the openings.

Farrell released his hold on the lord and rubbed his brow. "As much as I would have it otherwise, my lord, I fear the mayor has handed Erienne over to the sheriff."

Lord Saxton snarled beneath his breath, "I should have killed that...!" With amazing agility, he spun on his heel, sweeping the heavy cane about him like a saber. "And Talbot? Where is he?"

"I believe the sheriff said he was away."

"Where did they take her?"

"I don't know," Farrell answered lamely.

"Which way did they go?"

"I'm sorry." The young man gave his admission shamefacedly. "I was in the kitchen, and I did not see."

For a moment Lord Saxton cast his leather-covered head from side to side like an enraged bull seeking an elusive foe. He straightened and barked out the doorway, "Bundy!"

The man vaulted from the carriage seat and came running. "Aye, milord?"

"Send men on fast horses to Carlisle, Wirkinton, out the York road, every direction! Have them search out word of..." He turned to Farrell with the unspoken question, and that worthy filled in the information required.

"The town livery. They took it without the driver."

"Tanner!"

"Aye, milord?" He was already at the door.

"I won't be leaving just yet. Prepare the coach, and be ready to move at any time."

"Aye, milord!"

"Bundy," Lord Saxton faced his man again, "I have letters to write. See that men are set to guard the Saxton roads, and be ready yourself to ride." He turned and made his way back into the great hall, with Farrell close at his side.

"What can I do to help, my lord? She's my sister. I've got to do something."

"You will, Farrell," the older man assured him. "I have a need for someone to ride to Wirkinton to seek out Captain Daniels on the
Cristina
and give him a letter."

"But that's Seton's ship. How..." Farrell seemed confused. "Why would you want the Yankee's help when Erienne... I mean..." He did not find the words to finish. If Lord Saxton was ignorant of his wife's infidelity, Farrell vowed that he would not be the one to tell him. "Of course I'll go. Anything to help."

Passing on to the chamber beyond the great hall, Saxton pulled a chair out from a desk and took up quill and parchment, then sat for a moment with the former poised above the latter. Of a sudden he sat back in the chair with a growl.

"That damned fool Avery! His luck will be exceptional if I don't see every bit of his hide flayed from him!" Remember-ing the other's presence, he glanced toward him. "My apologies, Farrell. I did not mean to insult you."

"Rest easy, milord." The younger spoke wryly. "I have preceded you. I no longer recognize the mayor as any kin of mine."

In the next hours there arose a current across the Saxton holdings that only much later came to the lord's attention. Bundy rode to several farms seeking out his choice of men to guard the lands and to be ready if the need arose. Though none declined this service to their lord, he bound them to silence, lest some careless word further betray the Lady Erienne in her duress. Still, by the gloaming's end, hardly an ear remained that had not heard of the lady's fate. While the men cleaned muskets and sharpened their scythes, the wives made plans to take their carts to every village, town, or market they could reach within a day's ride and back. They vowed they would not see this lord driven from his rightful place.

Erienne came awake in slow stages. She was first aware of being uncomfortable and cold, then of a stricture about her wrists and mouth. She raised her head to find that she was lying on a pallet of straw stuffed into an ancient bed frame and covered with a blanket loosely tucked in at the edges. She suffered from a clear sense of disorientation, unable to recognize anything of her surroundings. Thick patches of plaster had crumbled away from the stone walls, and what was left of the windowpanes was not enough to keep the crisp winds out. A rickety table and chairs were tumbled together, as if they had been hauled in and dumped. A heavy, planked door with a small barred window seemed to be the only access to the room, but it bore no handle or knob that might have encouraged her to try it. Near it, a small cubicle gave evidence of being a privy closet. Its door gaped open, sagging from a broken hinge.

She pushed herself up on an elbow, and the room swayed with the onset of a pounding ache in her head. She recalled the same feeling that had come upon her after her fall into the stream. With that memory came another one, firm now in its clarity, of Christopher leaping from his horse with hooded cape spreading wide, and charging across the rivulet, heedless of its cold, to lift her in his iron-thewed arms and bear her up from the chill morass. She remembered the warmth of his body and the tantalizing man-smell that had haunted her through the months with Lord Saxton.

Her mind cleared, and she realized the full import of her fate. She was a prisoner, and to what end she could all too readily imagine. They would demand that Christopher Seton surrender himself in return for her release. If that event should occur, she could hardly believe that either of them would long survive.

She twisted around until she sat on the edge of the bed, then raising her hands to the gag, began to work at the knot that still chafed her cheeks. She winced as the cloth shifted and brushed a tender spot alongside her jaw. She tossed the muffle away and, with her teeth, plucked at the cords tied about her wrists. When freed, she rubbed the red marks that had left visible evidence of the tightness of her bonds. A bucket of clear water near the window gave her the best view of the dark bruise on her cheek, and she gently waggled her jaw to see if there might be a deeper hurt. It seemed serviceable enough as she tested it, but she had doubts that she could withstand another such blow without the bones giving way.

Footsteps grated against the narrow stone stairs outside the door, announcing the arrival of visitors, and Erienne straightened to await her gaoler. A key rattled in the lock, then after a loud "clank," the thick portal swung inward as Allan Parker made his entry. He was followed closely by another man bearing a tray with a covered bowl and a half loaf of dark bread.

"Good day, my lady." Parker gave the greeting in good humor. "I trust you slept well." Ignoring her glower, Allan came to her and leaned near, inspecting the purplish swelling just above the line of her jaw. "I must warn Fenton about his heavy hand. He is rather brutish with things of delicacy."

Thinking of nothing pertinent to say, Erienne simply turned away from the man, denying him the benefit of a reply. The other man had straightened the table and chairs and placed the tray on the former. He caught the meaningful jerk of his leader's head and, without a word, beat a hasty retreat, pulling the door closed behind him.

"Come, Erienne," Allan coaxed. "Do not ignore me. You know I have always been more than a little fond of you, and it pains me to see you abused because of this situation. You will surely stay here for a while until we bring this Seton fellow to heel."

Erienne faced him at last.
This
was something pertinent. "Do you think Christopher will ever yield to a pack of thieving murderers?"

"What are you saying, madam?" Allan feigned amazement. "We are well within the law. Christopher Seton is the murderer, and you are his mistress."

"You are part of the murdering band that has laid waste to this country for years!" she accused irately.

His brows lifted in a tiny shrug. "A man must survive, madam."

"Survive! Do you call this surviving?" She looked about in derision. "Hiding out like frightened rabbits?"

"Only until the hawk is caught, my lady," he answered easily. "We have felt his claws much too often not to be wary of him, and we have the bait we need to bring him to ground."

"Christopher will never be snared by your trap! He knows it would mean his death and no doubt my own. You could not long tolerate either of us in your midst."

"Seton, certainly not! But you, fair Erienne, are quite a different matter." He brushed a hand over her tumbled hair but dropped it again when she jerked her head away from his fondling. "I bid you consider your predicament. Lord Talbot will return in a few days, and I think his persistence will prove most trying to your reserve. Even I cannot deny him. His power extends to areas beyond these climes. And there are others."