My True Love (28 page)

Ian spoke from behind her. “Why do we have to skulk about like ghosts?”

It was Hannah who silenced him before Anne had a chance to say a word. “Because we do.”

Langlinais appeared like a specter in the moonlight. So, too, the shadows of people who walked slowly down the bank of the river on this side of the castle. They were escorted by members of the regiment, their murmurs barely audible in the night air. Harrington Court would be empty soon and Stephen made a prisoner.

Richard stopped and turned, gathering Hannah close to him. Together they were a small, huddled group. He bent his head to Anne’s.

“You are to wait for Stephen at the tower,” he whispered. “He’s asked that you show no light. Can you find your way?”

She nodded. The steps to the east tower were as familiar to her as Dunniwerth’s many paths.

“I’ll go with her,” Ian said. She stayed him with her hand on his chest.

“No.”

“It will not be safe,” he insisted.

“No,” she said again. She didn’t want him at the castle. She wanted to say good-bye in her own way. Her tears would be her own, not witnessed by Ian. The boy he had been was too strong a memory to feel friendship for him now.

It was Richard who stepped between them, then turned to Anne.

“We will see you in time. Godspeed, Anne.”

One by one, the inhabitants of Harrington Court faded away until she stood alone.

She stood there watching darkness fall over Langlinais, feeling a curious emptiness. As if the very spirit of the place were seeping away. Saying farewell in the most tender and bittersweet of voices.

She walked slowly to the tower entrance. A glow infused the castle, made it appear as something out of a dream. But it was only the moonlight, full and rich and white.

No wooden door stood there, guardian against invader. Only a rectangular space that opened up to a cavernous darkness.

She was not frightened of the dark, and it seemed a good thing as she took one step after another up the spiral stairs. The night sky beckoned her, sending a shaft of blue-hued moonlight through the opening at the top.

How many people had taken those steps and stood upon this timbered floor? How many faced a vista of spangled darkness and a moon shining bright in an early sky? Had they each felt as she did now, with her heart beating loudly in her chest, and her breath caught by such beauty?

The trees along the Terne were black tinged with emerald. Shadows clung to the ground, hugged the river and hills, casting them in relief, rendering them larger than before. Even a bird, soaring toward the moon on wings dusted by night, appeared grand and awe-inspiring against the full disk of moon. A sparrow turned eagle.

She had never before felt such enchanted beauty. It was a moment of poignant serenity like the instant before a song, a hesitation just a second before a dirge began on the pipes, or a solemn breath before a flute’s perfect note. It was a promise in the air, as if it trembled with anticipation. A spellbound tower in an enchanted castle.

It was somehow oddly fitting that she sat there in the silence and waited for Stephen of Langlinais.

Chapter 24

S
tephen walked into the kitchen, intent upon one of his final tasks. A farewell.

It was a room that mirrored the spirit of the house. It boasted four large windows now darkened with the encroaching night. On each sill there were two bright red flowerpots filled with trailing ivy. Dishes and silverware were arranged on blue shelves mounted against crisp white walls. The copper was brightly polished, and the watery gleam of pewter reflected the glow of the fire.

“I’ve no wish to leave you, my lord,” Betty said, drying her eyes with the corner of her apron. Stephen had arranged with Richard for her and Ned to live in his household for a few months while they made plans of their own. There they would be safe. Even Penroth would not bother a Parliamentarian as prominent as Richard.

Betty had been his second mother. And Ned? A store of valuable knowledge had come from Ned, who’d spoken to him as he’d curried the horses, the words almost unintelligible formed around the stem of his pipe.

“You’ll not want for anything for the rest of your lives,” he said now, giving Ned the name of his banker and a letter that bore Stephen’s crest. The document would serve as both an introduction and written verification of Stephen’s wishes. Even in time of war, the monetary system flourished. Fortunes were made or lost regardless of year or political climate.

“We could not, my lord,” Betty said, ignoring the elbow jab from her husband.

“You must,” Stephen said. He smiled at her and she sighed. A gesture of capitulation and one he’d rarely seen from Betty.

“It’s time to go,” he said gently.

She squinted her eyes at him. When he’d been a boy, that look had preceded a scolding. Even the fourteen-year-old earl had not been exempt from her occasional disapproval. But now all she did was grab him and hug him fiercely. He held on for just a moment before she released him. Ned only pumped his hand up and down and smiled. An expression that looked as forced as his own.

“Be careful,” Stephen said, and they only nodded.

He watched them for a moment as they walked down the hill. They were the last. The house was settling in around him, soft murmurs of sounds almost like that of a sleeping cat. As if Harrington Court slept. Or dreamed.

The act of surrender had been as carefully choreographed for him as if it were a pageant. There was a curious spectacle to it. He was to walk out of the front door of Harrington Court and meet with a representative of General Penroth. From there he was to be taken to the general’s tent, where he would formally surrender not only his home but his person to the Parliamentarians. He would be sent to London, there to stand trial. For all his words to Anne, he doubted the possibility of clemency. He would, no doubt, be sentenced to die.

He had no intention of going to his execution without at least trying to escape. There was more warrior in him than statesman.

One of his ancestors had devised the holder in his hand. A candle fitted upon a spike and a parchment shade, oiled and cut into a curve, surrounded it on three sides. He lit the candle now. The effect was a diffuse glow.

He turned and walked through the entrance to the public rooms and from there into the green room, so called because of the emerald silk adorning the walls.

This chamber was out of a nightmare, an excess of ornamentation with curlicues painted on the green silk fabric. Gold tassels hung from the seams. Even the plastered ceiling had not been spared and was painted in varying shades of ochre and umber.

He stood in front of the black granite fireplace. Above it, hung against the emerald brocade, was a massive sword. Sebastian’s sword.

As a boy he’d been barely able to lift it. Now he did so easily. Still, he felt admiration for the man who’d carried it into battle. It was always kept polished. Even now it gleamed in the light of the candle. He had begged the maids to let him do the chore as a boy, and they had willingly relinquished their duty. He smiled now at the dupe he had been.

But he could still remember the joy he’d felt as he’d rubbed the steel until it gleamed. Now he traced the line of the pigeon-egg-sized ruby in the center of the hilt.

He left the room carrying the broadsword, placed it on the table in the kitchen. He began to tour Harrington Court. His mind furnished memory as he went. A boisterous boyish voice. His own. His mother’s soft tones, Betty’s remonstrances. The echoing boom of his father’s shout, the sound of Anne’s soft laughter.

He entered his study, placed the candle on his desk. He placed the coffer with the codex in his pack along with a few other items. The most valuable treasure, the scriptorium desk, could not be taken with him.

His fingers rubbed the blackened wood. Age had imparted a sheen to it, a patina that no carpenter could duplicate. He walked behind it, placed his hands on the sloping desk. Juliana might have written her Chronicles here.

He left the room finally, completed his tour of the second floor, then the third.

An echoing emptiness suffused the house, and as if it knew its fate, it seemed to sigh.

On the third floor, he began to touch the draperies with the candle. Tongues of flame followed his descent to the second floor. Then to the first.

His prayer was elemental.
Give me the strength to finish this
. And then, an imploration to all those unseen ancestors who appeared to watch, horrorstruck from the shadows.
Forgive me
.

Anne stood, her fists braced on the edge of the merlon, staring at Harrington Court. Lights flick ered in the upper stories as if a party were being held and a thousand candles had been lit.

A shadow ran down the hill, its back hunched. A wolf, not man. Or a monster, perhaps.

He ran across the bridge, then halted in the lower bailey, looking up at the tower. She separated the shadow from the man as Stephen placed his pack on the ground.

She heard his footsteps on the steps, stood beside the opening, her attention directed not upon his arrival, but on the conflagration.

The glow from Harrington Court lit the night sky, set into relief the ruins of Langlinais.

“Have they fired it?” she asked when he arrived at the top of the tower.

“No,” he said, “I have.”

She looked at him. “Why?”

“Losing is not in my nature, Anne. If they want Harrington Court, they’ll take it on my terms.”

“And you, Stephen?”

He glanced at her. He was moon-draped shadow. “The idea of surrendering myself has even less appeal.”

“Why did you not tell me?” It would have saved her hours of worry, not to mention grief.

“There was no time.” He stepped closer, reached down, and extended his arm around her. “Did you think I would abandon you, Anne?”

“No,” she said, allowing herself to be mollified by the gentle kiss he placed on her temple. “Only do something idiotic and courageous.”

She could feel him smile against her skin.

She turned in his arms, her attention drawn back to the sight of the fire. The great house was an inferno now, the flames leaping from the ground floor to the roof. Only the stone lions guarding the kitchen gate appeared exempt, their aloof majesty lit by the glow behind them.

She knew why he had done it. So that a stranger would not sit at his table or marvel at the fireplaces carved at the behest of an Elizabethan earl. They would not stride through hallways adorned with frescoes and boast of the capture of this house. Not one man whose name was not Harrington would ever marvel at the thirteenth-century woman who’d been a scribe.

But he had been so much a part of that place. And this one where they stood.

One by one the windows began to shatter. The house groaned as if all the voices from the past rose up in muffled consternation. One last protest before they were forever silenced.

“It sounds as if it is alive,” she said.

“It is a place of stone and brick,” he softly said. “Nothing more.”

It was more, and he knew it well. Did buildings hold memories? Did they hide within their shells the recollections of joy or sorrow?

She turned to him. His gaze was not on Harrington Court, but on the moonlit castle around them. From here the open chambers of the great hall and chapel could be seen. Then beyond, to all three baileys glowing in the light of a full moon.

Memories were here for him. Here was his childhood refuge, the place he went to feel alone, at peace, or free. It was his sanctuary.

Stephen
.

He glanced her way as if he’d heard her.

“It is only a building,” he said again, and his voice was strong and resolute. Too much so.

“I prayed for a miracle,” she confessed. “I was somewhat happy when General Penroth first appeared. I thought it would keep you from going to war.”

“An odd miracle.”

“I think it is a lesson from God,” she said, smiling. “Do not question His miracles.”

“God does not like to be tested,” he said. Juliana’s words.

He held out his hand and she clasped it.

Billowing black smoke created a nimbus around the grand house, seemed to stretch to the moon. An eerie sight, this moonlit night. As if nature had lit a candle to better illuminate the destruction of Harrington Court. The Parliamentarian soldiers milled around the structure, witnesses to the conflagration, as she and Stephen were from the safety of the tower at Langlinais.

It was a time of farewell to all that the Earls of Langlinais had been and would never be again.

She felt awed by him. The earl, the commander, the man.

It had been obvious he could not defeat Penroth’s forces, and to protect those within his domain he had not tried. But he had not given up, either. Even now, as he stood watching his heritage burn to the ground, he did so with resolve.

She reached up to him, framed his face with her hands. The tears she’d tried not to shed bathed her face. Her mouth trembled with the effort to hold silent her sobs.

He leaned against her. Sighed. Only that.

She held him then. Simply held him. Words were too much.

They descended the steps slowly, but instead of following the path of ascent, Stephen veered to the left. A few steps more, and they were in the chapel.

The statue of Juliana and Sebastian gleamed in the moonlight. They approached it silently. Stephen placed his hand on Juliana.

“I used to think that she looked like my mother.”

“Did she?”

“No,” he said. “But I do not think them dissimilar. My mother had blond hair and eyes that changed, either blue or green, depending upon what she wore. I remember being fascinated by them when I was a child. She had a way of walking that seemed as if her feet never touched the ground. At least it looked that way to a small boy. She was gentle, with a kind word for everyone. But it was her laughter I remember most. She always found something to feel joyous about, be it a newly opened flower or a rock that I brought her shaped like a frog. If she cried, I never saw it.”