Claire Delacroix (31 page)

“On the morrow,” she lies, desperately wishing that their fear of Magnus still protected her.

She should have guessed that they would know the very moment that she was defenseless again.

Her taller cousin laughs. “Naughty Anna, to tell us such a lie.”

“Have you need of a lesson, Anna?” demands the other cousin.

“Not I!” she declares, her steps lengthening to a run.

“Liar, Anna!” cries her brother. “Your fine Magnus has cast you out. Every soul knows that he will take Margaret for his bride.”

“Were you too dirty for him, Anna?” whispers her cousin.

“Dirty slut, Anna,” chides the second.

“We shall have to teach her a lesson,” her brother threatens. Anna flees, but one cousin trips her.

She cries out as she falls, but the other shoves a rag into her mouth. She is struck across the face and held down in the wet undergrowth of the forest. She struggles, her tears blurring her vision, and screams despite the rag. She feels the chill air of spring upon her thighs and rages as the first climbs atop her.

Aye, she is barren, barren because of the wicked things done to her to ensure that her own family’s seed never bore fruit. She weeps at the pain, knowing there will be blood, just as the first time there was blood on the snow. She is trapped forever, ensnared in this wickedness, because she was too proud to ask the only man who could save her for his aid.

She was too ashamed to tell him the truth.

And now, now Anna will pay time and again for her folly.

A cool hand touches Aileen’s brow, easing away her fear. “There are deeds no soul should be doomed to recall,” that kind voice whispers and the memory of Anna’s assault fades away. Aileen’s heart still races with terror, but the familiar feminine voice speaks soothingly. “What could make you hate a man enough to curse him? This is all you have need of knowing, this is the sole reason that you remember any of this.”

“Magnus was Anna’s chance of escape.”

“Indeed, and by spurning her, he condemned her a life of their abuse. Ambition on his side made him fear truth in the rumor that she could not bear a child, a rumor begun by her tormentors.”

“And pride on her side kept her from confessing the truth to him,” Aileen murmurs. “She feared to lose him with the truth, but lost him all the same with the lie.”

“Indeed.” Those cool fingers stroke Aileen’s brow again and a fog seems to clear from a vision before her eyes. “Look again, and see how Anna’s vengeance was wrought.”

Aileen sees Anna make her curse, sees the company watching her deed, feels Anna’s anger. Aye, she hates Magnus as one can only despise what one has loved. But Anna is not content with otherworldly vengeance—Aileen sees her mixing herbs, tainting the water of Inverfyre with her brew, ensuring that Magnus is denied the heir he so desires.

“She knew the herbs well,” that kindly voice advises. “For she had used them oft herself.”

She sees Anna disguising herself, presenting potions to Magnus’ pregnant bride. Then she sees a coffin in the chapel and Magnus himself planting a tree to mark the burial spot of his wife.

And the cycle repeats, Anna’s fury burning through her reason.

Aileen is sickened. “What happened to her?” she asks and the voice hesitates.

“But a glimpse will suffice,” that woman advises, those fingertips touching Aileen’s brow again. Aileen has a fleeting glimpse of flames surrounding her, licking high, scorching her skin. She smells the smell that has always made her bile rise and she gasps in anxiety. She sees the cousins and brother jeering, feels the tightness of her bonds, hears the crowd chanting that she is a witch.

Yet she feels Anna’s relief that this torment will end the woes of her days.

“Come, come,” the voice coaxes. “Enough of such old pain.” Laughter dances in the next words. “Meet me at your memory palace, child.”

Aileen is cheered, knowing who she will find there. She summons the recollection of her memory palace and winds her way to the garden. The sun is shining, as always it is, but the rose bushes with their red red blossoms in the midst of the garden are gone.

Instead an older woman stands there, a smile curving her lips and affection lighting her eyes.

“Mother!” Aileen runs to her mother and is caught in a tight embrace. Though she knows this to only be a dream, she is relieved and tearful. “I knew you were not mad.”

Her mother strokes her hair, tucking a strand of it behind her ear. “And what is madness, but a differing perception of the world around us?” she asks gently. “Who is to say what is truth from a divine source, what is revelation, and what is madness in truth?” She takes Aileen’s hand before Aileen can respond and leads her to a corner of the garden that Aileen had never examined before.

She is no longer surprised to discover things in her memory palace that she had not placed there.

Two plants grew there, a shrub with doughty branches and many thick thorns, and a vine that twined around it like a garland. The vine was graced with white flowers that had a beguiling scent.

“The honeysuckle and the hazel,” Aileen says, with certainty.

Her mother smiles. “None other, for none other could grace the garden of your soul. Look upon then, daughter mine, and learn something from their growth.”

“The honeysuckle adorns the hazel, while the hazel defends the honeysuckle.”

“More than that, child. The honeysuckle gains support from the hazel, and stability.” She untangled one of the honeysuckle vines and let Aileen hold its fine length. “See how narrowly wrought it is: a strong wind would uproot it, or tear it to shreds.”

“But the hazel clings to the earth, granting support.”

“Indeed, but the hazel is plain and attracts no bees to its own humble flowers. The honeysuckle gives it beauty while aiding in the fulfilling of its responsibilities. They grant each other purpose, but only when they trust each other fully.”

“They are partners in truth, better together than apart.”

“And the garden benefits from their combination. Left to itself, the hazel will spread most ambitiously, while the honeysuckle will wind so tightly around other plants as to choke the life from them. They are vigorous plants and both require a strong companion to muster their best.” Her mother grants her a shrewd glance. “They must contain the darker impulses of their nature to nurture each other.”

“The hazel must be less ambitious.”

“The honeysuckle less inclined to climb where it is treacherous to pass.”

“Anna should not have used the Sight for vengeance,” Aileen guesses and her mother smiles.

“And had Magnus compromised his ambition, they might have found happiness together in that life.”

Aileen considers the entwined pair of plants. “They require each other, and no others,” she says, understanding that her mother speaks more of Aileen and the Hawk than of these two plants.

There is no reply. Aileen turns, but her mother is gone. She gasps and pivots, then her gaze falls upon the red red rose in the middle of her memory palace. As she watches, the bush grows taller, summons a hundred buds, then bursts into glorious bloom. Tears come to Aileen’s eyes, for she perceives this to be her mother’s blessing of her match.

Then her mother’s voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. “Learn your lessons from your past, daughter mine, and the future is yours to claim.”

And Aileen knows then that she will always find her mother’s clear voice in her memory garden. She has only to dream to find wise counsel.

That is a gift beyond expectation.

* * *

Aileen awakened with tears wet upon her cheeks. She reached across the bed, but the Hawk was not there. Her fingers grazed something wrought of polished wood, but Aileen ignored that. She sat up, expecting that he would be watching her as he sipped a cup of wine. The last embers gleamed in the brazier, casting a glow across the chamber.

But the Hawk was gone.

Had she displeased him? Had she unwittingly inflicted another vision upon him? Aileen’s breath caught as she scanned the chamber. His garb was gone, as was his blade and his mail.

Had Inverfyre been attacked?

She glanced down to whatever had been left on the mattress and a lump rose in her throat. It was a bow, a beautifully wrought bow, its finish as smooth as silk and its wood the hue of fine honey. Aileen caressed it with a fingertip, noting the quiver of arrows beside it. This was a weapon wrought for a prince, and she understood that her husband had left it for her.

She blinked back her tears of delight and lifted the bow, noting how it fit into her grip. It could have been made for her, the way it nestled into her shoulder, the way the bowstring hummed taut against her hand. Aileen understood that it must have been a gift to her spouse in his youth, for the Hawk was tall enough and strong enough to need a deeper draw.

It was perfect for her, though, and far finer than the bow Blanche had seen destroyed. Aileen smiled to herself, pleased beyond compare that her spouse not only understood how she loved to practice this skill but that he endorsed such a practice in his wife.

She thought of her dream, of the errors they had made in the past and were in danger of repeating, and considered that they two might manage to achieve happiness together this time.

Honesty was a critical part of that potential success, and a need to put one’s pride aside. Aileen dressed in haste, wanting only to find the Hawk and express her thanks.

She heard the heavy echo of hoof beats and hastened to the window, but they faded from earshot, too far for her to see the steeds. The night was darker than dark, the moon new, and she could discern little. The keep appeared to be quiet, as if all slumbered the night away.

But Aileen had heard the hoof beats of destriers, she knew it well. She knew there were solely seven such warhorses in Inverfyre, and she knew who rode those beasts. She peered in the direction of the stables, and could see nothing in the deep shadows there.

Uncertainty and fear rose within her. She wondered whether the Hawk had had a particular reason for leaving her bed, or even for leaving her the bow. Had he suspected an assault?

Had he ridden out from the gates?

There was but one way to be certain.

Aileen opened the portal, her fears confirmed by the absence of any guard posted there. Alasdair and Ewen were gone, as doubtless was the Hawk. Nissa was curled as tightly as a cold hound upon her pallet, as if she feared assault in the night.

Aileen touched the maid’s shoulder and the girl jumped. “Nissa, the Hawk is gone, as I suspect are his men.”

“But where have they gone, my lady?” Nissa blinked as she wakened. “It is the midst of the night!”

The two women’s gazes met and Aileen saw the fear in the younger maiden’s eyes. She did indeed care for Ahearn.

“I am certain they will return hale enough,” she said calmly. “But I would have you join me in my chamber.”

The maid swallowed and nodded, then rose quickly. She was yet fully garbed. “I sleep uneasily in the hall, at any rate,” she said with forced cheer.

“Did my father retire to the chamber above?” Aileen asked as they entered the chamber and she turned the key in the lock behind them.

Nissa nodded, stooping to stir the coals in the brazier. “With two of his men and a pair of whores.” She grimaced even as she coaxed the flames to burn more lustily. “Never have I seen such a drunken lot as your father brought to Inverfyre! Meaning no disrespect, of course, my lady but one would think that they had never partaken of decent fare.”

“There never has been wine of this caliber at Abernye,” Aileen admitted. “My father’s wealth is far less than that of the Hawk, it is evident.”

Nissa’s tone softened. “Then, perhaps their gluttony is not so unexpected. They will suffer on the morrow, though, my lady, upon that we can rely.”

It was true enough. Aileen realized it was also true that none in this hall would be aware that the Hawk and his cohorts were gone.

Had his generosity with the wine been part of a scheme?

The sound of hoof beats made both women hasten across the chamber.

“Who is it?” Nissa whispered as the horse drew ever nearer.

Aileen shook her head as she tried to peer into the darkness. She saw the silhouettes of sentries as they clustered at one point on the wall. The hoof beats changed in speed and in sound, as if the horse left the road, and the steed whinnied. The sentries gathered closer and one shouted.

“Look!” Aileen whispered. On the opposite side of the wall from where the sentries huddled, a shadow slipped over the wall. It was in the same place that Aileen had imagined seeing an intruder on her first night at Inverfyre. There was no doubt that the man was truly there this time though, for Nissa put her hand over her mouth and stared.

“He let the horse run alone,” Aileen guessed. “He ensured thus that the sentries would be distracted from their labor.”

“Fools! The Hawk would not have been so readily deceived,” Nissa whispered loyally, though Aileen knew it was true.

As they watched, the man unslung a bow from his back. He fitted an arrow to the bowstring, then touched it to the flaming torch on the inside of the wall there. The tip of the arrow blazed as he launched it skyward.

“The signal!” Nissa cried in dismay even as Aileen’s heart stopped in understanding. Her husband had ridden out to dispatch the MacLaren clan.

And far worse, the Hawk had been betrayed.

A
ileen had no doubt that this arrow was but the first of three. Her heart clenched in fear for the Hawk, who could not know that the surprise would be his, not theirs. The MacLaren clan surely would rather see the Hawk dead than alive.

Perhaps the bowsman could be stopped before loosing all three arrows.

“Intruder!” Aileen shouted, even as the sentries pivoted. They shouted and began to race toward the bowsman. He launched a second burning arrow in quick succession to the first.

“They will never reach him in time!” Nissa cried.

Aileen pivoted and snatched up the bow the Hawk had left for her. It fitted to her hand as if wrought for her and she savored tautness of the bowstring as she drew it back.