Old Magic (20 page)

I decide my sleepless night has affected my sanity. A bird, from any century, is just that—a bird. “What are you looking at?” I snap at it. It squawks loudly and flies away.

Jarrod rolls over, waking groggily. “What? Who are you talking to?”

“A crow.”

“What?”

I get out of bed and start dressing, slipping the stockings on first. The fire died sometime during the night and it’s freezing up here now. “Forget it. We’re so high up the birds think this is their home.”

I finish dressing without once looking back to see what Jarrod is doing, or even where he’s looking. My restless night has put me in a foul mood, and I can still feel yesterday’s eerie vibes shoot through me. Jarrod and I are here for a specific reason, the sooner we accomplish our business, the better. Not that I mind being here really, having this opportunity to experience the past, something that absolutely fascinates me.

Breakfast is apparently served in the Great Hall. Even though I’m starving I’m skeptical about eating any of the food. Last night it just looked so . . . unhygienic. Being vegetarian I don’t eat meat anyway, so my choices are narrow at best.

As we start down the spiral staircase all thought of food disappears. Someone is screaming, a young female voice filled with such fear it echoes through the stone corridors like the screams of a tortured ghost. It has us running through the passageways right into the Great Hall.

It’s Morgana, the smallest and youngest of the maids who prepared the room last night. Jarrod and I glance quickly at each other, wondering if we’re to blame for the maid’s beating, for not letting her deal with our baths last night. We recall how worried she was at the thought that Lord Richard might find out.

“What’s going on?” I ask immediately. “What has this child done?”

I’m ready to take the blame, explain that it was my choice not to allow the maid to attend our baths last night. My sympathy pours out to her. She’s doubled over with pain, Lord Richard himself striking her with the back of his fist. Morgana is so small, each of Richard’s knocks has her physically reeling back against the wall. Morgana’s face is red on both sides and already beginning to swell. There are others—Isabel; Emmeline, her niece; Malcolm, her eldest son, who’s wearing a certain smug look in his dark green eyes; and Thomas, Richard’s closest and most loyal knight—but they’re just looking on with casual interest. Servant bashing is apparently something that happens regularly. Malcolm catches my eye and one eyebrow lifts. Evidently he’s amused at my distress. Emmeline, the cousin, is oblivious. Her gaze switches to Jarrod, and stays there, longingly. She reminds me of Tasha Daniels. I can’t believe my luck.

Lord Richard finally notices my concern. “Stupid girl,” he mutters angrily, his hand still raised ready to strike the next blow. “Look at my tunic.” He points to a slowly spreading liquid stain on his front that goes from his chest to a little below his waist, soiling what could only be the family crest—two white doves hovering over a purple rose inside a crimson diamond. “She spilled ale all over me.” He looks back at her angrily, and Morgana cowers into a small ball. “I’ll teach her to be so careless.” With that he strikes her, once again, sending her flying backward.

“My lord!” I can’t help but interfere. My heart hardens at the unjustness of the penalty. “I require the services of this maid. Do not damage her to the point that she will be useless to my needs.”

His head swings toward me, and for a second I think perhaps I’ve overstepped my mark. But his face finally softens, and he withdraws his hand. “Quite right, Lady Katherine. I dare say the wench has learned her lesson now anyway.” With this he dismisses Morgana, who sends me a grateful look as she quickly escapes the room.

After this incident I find I have no stomach at all for food. We move around the table and Jarrod bumps his leg on the corner. I grab his elbow, making sure he clears it this time. On top of being normally clumsy, he’s probably missing his glasses. I make a mental note to watch for inadvertent obstacles in his way. Jarrod nudges me, mumbling a subtle thanks. We sit and he offers me a slab of dark bread. Reluctantly I accept, aware that I need the physical strength food offers.

And the jam doesn’t look too bad. At least it smells all right, no little blue bits of mold. Fresh berries would have been better, but, as we discovered last night, it’s only a few weeks to winter, so there’s little if any fresh fruit or vegetables around, only dried, preserved, or far worse—heavily salted stuff that is so close to being poisonous I don’t even want to stand too close in case it spreads infection.

The jam turns out better than I thought, and I lather it on the thick bread. I have to concentrate though to block out the rough images of the others wolfing down their food, yanking off chicken legs with greasy fingers, slopping ale into wooden mugs, dripping it down their chins, which they wipe with the backs of their sleeves.

And while they eat, Lord Richard boasts about his cruelty to the villeins that work his fields. Thomas and Malcolm grin and nod, and this attitude is shared by soldiers at the other tables who think their lord’s ugly deeds are comical. My appetite disappears altogether when they start laughing over the fate of the peasant woman who recently lost her husband in a battle to help save the keep from falling into the hands of a neighboring Scottish lord. He was, apparently, a hard worker. This woman is Edwina, and I wish I’d never met her now. They discuss how she’ll probably turn to a life of thievery, or begging, or prostitution to survive.

I almost gag on the food that refuses to go down my throat. Jarrod sends me a sympathetic look, but he knows, as I know, there’s nothing either of us can do about that woman and her family. I have to let it be. If only I could use a little magic, I find myself thinking.

It’s just as I think of magic that a commotion outside the Great Hall seizes everyone’s attention. It seems Lord Richard has an unannounced visitor. A tall impressive-looking man strides in, wearing all black. He bears an even more striking resemblance to Jarrod than Richard, except he’s taller and thicker set. He has Jarrod’s hair color too, dark blond with russet tints, except this man’s eyes are jet black. And I realize with a start where that eerie pulsing energy is coming from.

So I guess who it is even before Lord Richard mentions his name. Only a powerful magician can emanate energy like this. It isn’t a warm welcome he receives either. “How is it, Rhauk”—Richard’s voice is cold and hostile—“that you always get through my guards, without anyone ever seeing you?”

The man, Rhauk, simply smiles. Slowly. He walks straight up to Richard, giving me his profile. “Is that any way to treat your brother, Richard?”

“Bah!” Richard scoffs. “You are no brother of mine. My father never acknowledged your birth. Never. Not even with his dying breath.”

“That may be, but he never denied it either. But I don’t want to get into that today,” he replies, seemingly bored. “I’ve more important things to do.”

“Well, what do you want this time?”

Ignoring Lord Richard, as if it’s beneath him to reply, Rhauk’s head shifts sideways, searching. His eyes find mine, and lock. “Eloise,” he whispers. Shivers hit me in waves.

For starters, I can’t possibly look like Eloise—these people would have noticed and reacted differently when they first saw me. I don’t look anything like these people, and because they don’t travel, they’ve never seen someone who looks quite like me before. My eyes are way too oval-shaped, my hair true black.

Rhauk seems to collect himself and smiles again. This time the smile has an element of cunning. He nods at me, and it’s as if he’s acknowledging that I’m what he’s come for. “What an exquisite creature,” he purrs like a feline. “Introduce us, Richard.”

Lord Richard is clearly uncomfortable, and coughs a little to clear his throat, I suspect, to buy himself some time. Rhauk’s reaction has him confused. “Er, this noblewoman is Lady Katherine. She comes a great distance to be with us. She has nothing to do with you, so keep your eyes off and stay well away.”

As the two discuss me I feel another energy pulse in the room. At first I don’t recognize it, until an almost familiar wind starts up. It quickly turns chillingly cold. It’s Jarrod. And he’s looking at Rhauk with eyes of absolute steel.

“Easy, Jarrod,” I say softly, suddenly seeing the huge problem in front of us. We’ve found the instigator of the curse, but Jarrod hasn’t acknowledged his gift yet and so can’t control his powers, let alone use them.

Rhauk senses another strength in the hall too. His nostrils flare, his head comes up just a little, black eyes drawing into slits. Slowly he turns to face Jarrod. Then he smiles that slow unnerving smile again.

Their eyes hold fast, and the wind inside the Great Hall picks up to gale force. Another power has entered the storm—Rhauk’s. Emmeline screams, yet I hardly hear it as the wind keeps growing violently. She clings to Isabel, who’s after answers, but her Lord Richard doesn’t have any. He’s struggling just to stay upright. Neither Jarrod nor Rhauk move. Their eyes remain locked.

The wind thrashes everything, tables empty, stools upturn, tapestries fly across the room. Everywhere is chaos.

Rhauk finally breaks the spell, swings his eyes to mine, and says softly, “How very interesting.”

The wind dies as quickly, and Jarrod stumbles to his knees, grasping his head. Richard demands to know what happened, but Rhauk ignores him. Instead he says to me, “Blacklands is on the northern peak. I’m sure you’ve seen it, Lady Katherine.” He pauses so that I understand his meaning. “You have a clear view of it from the tower.”

My eyes widen with surprise. He knows I slept in the tower last night. It gives me the creeps. He gives me the creeps. It’s exactly what he wants, to let me know how strong he is. So with an attempt at calm I reply, “So you noticed the rushlights were lit. How observant of you.”

His laugh is sarcastic. “Clever girl. I like your humor. Please, join me for dinner tonight, at dusk.”

Before I have a chance to reply, Richard interrupts. “Forget it, Rhauk. You can’t get your claws into this one. Lady Katherine is already married.”

Rhauk’s eyebrows shoot up at this. He glances at Jarrod and scoffs loudly. “To you!” He laughs as if he’s cracked a hilarious private joke. “Oh well, I guess you’d better come too.”

He leaves a trail of devastation behind him, and a lot of nervous conversation. I help Jarrod, who remains unsteady and dazed, to his feet. I pull up a chair in which he gratefully sits.

As servants start straightening the chaos I think about Rhauk. Sensing Jarrod’s powers, he showed some of his own. But he was only playing with Jarrod, trying to gauge his strength.

And it didn’t take much for Rhauk to sum Jarrod up as being no challenge at all.

Jarrod

I recall the look in Rhauk’s eyes the moment he spotted Kate. It will stay with me forever, carved into my brain like an engraving on a headstone. It’s as if he found something he treasured, something he’s been looking for all his life.

He wants Kate, all right. But I have to wonder why? What is going on here? It’s more than just an instant attraction. It runs much deeper. This is what’s wrong.

This unusual man has to be the one we’re looking for. The one who cursed my family. He has a certain strength about him; the Great Hall is a shambles. Richard is running around like a headless chicken while servants and soldiers alike rush about at his orders straightening the mess. The mess can go to hell for all I care, I just want to get to the bottom of Rhauk’s vengeance. He spoke to Richard under the assumption of a blood link. I know part of this history already, but it’s still a good place to start.

“Why does Rhauk say he is your brother?” I ask Richard.

Richard pauses in the middle of issuing orders to his soldiers and looks at me. “Unfortunately, nephew, it is what he mistakenly believes.”

“Is that why he’s so resentful?” Kate asks, putting a hand on my shoulder, encouraging this line of conversation.

Richard’s chest lifts and expands. He holds this breath for a long moment, then collapses into his high-back chair. “I have something he thinks belongs to him.”

“What would that be?” I prod at his lengthy pause.

“Our castle, of course,” Isabel replies. “And all our lands and incomes.”

“Was Rhauk first born?” Kate asks.

“No!” Richard yells, thumping a heavy fist on the table just righted before him. “Rhauk may claim he is Geoffrey’s true firstborn son, but Rhauk’s birth was never acknowledged by my father.”

Kate frowns. “He doesn’t look old enough to be . . .” Her voice fades.

Richard lifts his gaze to hers, his voice oddly hoarse. “It’s his magic, my dear. It’s rumored Rhauk’s mother was a true-born witch.”

I can see Kate thinking: This will explain Rhauk’s unearthly powers, his ability to place a curse on the family that denied him, the family that shut him out. And Richard is a hard man, and cruel, he would never hand over ownership of his castle and lands.

“Couldn’t Rhauk’s mother confirm his parentage?” Kate asks.

“Aha!” Richard glances briefly at Isabel, who stands beside him, her hand comfortingly patting his arm. She is his rock, and this big man is not embarrassed to lean on her. Another quirk to his colorful nature.

“Her parents died in a fire. She came to Blacklands for food and shelter. The nuns took her in but already she was with child. It was strongly rumored she had been seduced by the devil,” Isabel hisses. “She remained at Blacklands until the birthing. The nuns knew of her evil sorcery and tried to cleanse her, but even her own magic wasn’t enough to save her life.”

“She died?” I ask.

“Yes, in childbirth.”

Kate swears, softly under her breath. Both Richard and Isabel’s eyes fly to hers. They are not used to such words coming out of the mouth of a lady. Thankfully, Kate recovers quickly and mutters, “Such a shame. The baby, I mean. To be motherless at birth. Who raised him?”

Their attention successfully diverted, Richard says, “Ah, now that is another mystery.”

Again Isabel takes up the explanation, “Some say he was raised by the crows that feed out of Blacklands. But of course this is nonsense. Others believe the nuns raised him before he ravaged and killed them all while still a youth, claiming their convent for himself.”