Once Upon a Knight (26 page)

“Nae! You need a bit of pain!”

The woman was still loud, and she was trying to shove Sybil as she yelled at her. Sybil was in luck that the woman was small and frail and as weak as her son since all that happened was Sybil swayed a bit. She was going to be bruised on her arm from the woman’s talonlike grip, however.

“Mistress, calm yourself. This is na’ doing your son any good.” Somebody said it. Sybil didn’t look for which one it could be.

“Get him the potion. I beg of you.” The woman had turned back to using her pitiful, weak tone.

“Nae,” Sybil replied in what she hoped was a calm tone.

The woman opened her fingers, releasing Sybil. “You’re just like him! Always one for dancing out of the line of trouble—and leaving others to take the pain. Taking. Taking. Taking.”

“That’s enough, Mistress Carrick. Cease this.”

One of the clansmen spoke up. It wasn’t Vincent. He was acting like a creature made of stone. It wasn’t hiding what he wanted hidden, though. Sybil observed, assigned his reaction meaning, and added it to her knowledge about him. He considered himself just as guilty of the elder Carrick son’s death as the mother did. Mayhap more so.

“Nae! ’Tis na’ enough!” The woman was flinging her arms wide and sending her words to the latticework of beams above them. At nothing. A glance showed no fire had reached this tower. “The grand laird caused all the pain and suffering and death. And then he fled! Where was he when the house burned, and with it his parents? Well? I’ll tell you where. Dancing. That’s where he was. While my Edward perished of his injuries, where was he? Well?” She brought her arms down and pointed right at Vincent. Nobody said anything, and then Sybil was shoved aside as the elder Carrick shouldered his way into the room and pulled his wife close, lifting her from the floor into his embrace and crooning.

That seemed to be all she needed, for Sybil had never seen a woman collapse so quickly nor so frighteningly.

“Have you na’ done enough, my laird?” The man directed the words at Vincent. “Must you return and turn your blackness on what’s left of my family? Dinna’ you have enough satisfaction from the killing of Edward?”

He was spitting the words, and the bitterness of them looked close to choking him. Sybil stepped back, right into Vincent. She expected him to enfold her, help with the trembling, keep her from experiencing the hatred coming from the Carrick couple. Vincent did neither. He stepped away from her. And then he left.

“Vincent! Wait!”

Sybil had both hands full of her skirt and was jogging before they reached the back entry doors. She was at a full run before he cleared the inner courtyard. She knew what he was doing—running away. That seemed to be what he did best. The entire staff seemed to know of it, too. They raised the gate for him before he reached it and kept it hovering above head level as she looked like she might try to follow him, although it would be useless. She didn’t need anyone to speak of it. It was enough that he’d broken into a run the moment he cleared the gate. Sybil couldn’t keep up with him. She doubted anyone could.

Except Waif.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the dark streak of the wolf as he joined Vincent and kept pace at his side. Sybil watched as the gate jerked back into place in front of her, putting webbed mesh in front of her nose. Waif would keep Vincent safe enough. She didn’t know what was going to do the same for her.

“It does na’ do any good to chase after him. He’s too quick.”

It was Vincent’s sister, the one he’d addressed as Mary Elizabeth. The family resemblance was even more evident up close, especially with her dark-lashed eyes that looked to be full of spite and something more. Something Sybil couldn’t place.

“I was na’ chasing him,” Sybil replied after a moment.

She laughed. It wasn’t a gay sound. “Looked to me like you were chasing him.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Sybil told her.

The laugh stopped. “Come. There’s too many listening ears here.”

Sybil looked about. There wasn’t anyone interested enough to look like they were eavesdropping, although there were plenty of clansmen and women about. When she looked back, the blonde had turned about and was leading the way back to the keep. She didn’t check to see if Sybil was following. Which was odd. Vincent’s sister hadn’t much to offer—save answers.

Mary Elizabeth seemed to have her own tower, as well. It wasn’t far enough away from the sounds of Myron Carrick’s continued sufferings, however. Sybil perched uncomfortably at the edge of a chair near the fireplace, where dead coals evidenced the blaze that had been there the prior evening.

The blonde sat in the padded chair opposite and then reclined to one side, pulling her legs up beneath her. The pose made her look like a lass of twelve, mayhap thirteen. Sybil sharpened her gaze. The impression didn’t fade.

“You are the sister, Mary Elizabeth?”

The girl shook her head. “Younger sister. Mary is na’ allowed out of her rooms as a matter of course. If I’d have known of our brother’s arrival, I’d have met you at the stairs, na’ her.”

“Why?”

“Because the returning laird should have been met by a Danzel.”

“Mary Elizabeth…must be wed, then?”

“In a fashion,” the sister replied.

Sybil’s lips twitched. The answers were cryptic and mystifying and leading. That was just amusing. It was like eavesdropping on herself.

“Widowed?”

The girl smiled widely. Then she shrugged.

“Widows should remarry. How odd. Was the death recent?”

There was a moan filtering through the door. Sybil knew it belonged to the weakling, Myron. She frowned slightly and turned back. “I should see to young Carrick, now.”

“Why?” the girl asked.

“Because he’s suffered long enough, and it served its purpose.”

“What purpose?”

“He’s young but old enough to have learned the purpose of suffering.”

“You mean, he’s spineless,” the girl added. Sybil smiled slightly but knew the other saw it.

“Have you a name?” Sybil asked.

“Of course I have a name,” came the reply.

“And may I ken what it is?” Sybil pulled her skirts up preparatory to standing.

“You canna’ guess?”

Sybil was on her feet. She needed to get Myron Carrick a tisane of sorts. She was already putting together the specific herbs she’d use. A packet of dried dandelion leaves as well as a pinch of garlic. It would taste terrible, but it would assist him into slumber, and that would suffice in allowing everyone a bit of rest.

“Why should I do that?” Sybil asked, moving to the door and then leaving. She had to get to the wagon and find her apothecary items. And she wanted to escape the sounds of suffering.

“Because I want to find out if Vincent’s bride is as bright as they all whisper of.”

That stopped Sybil’s steps for a moment. “They whisper of it? Who?”

“Any I asked. All of them. I ken. I asked them.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I wanted to ken if you’d help me.”

“With what?” They’d reached the front steps, and Sybil stood there undecided. She didn’t know where the stable-yards lay.

“Revenge.”

Sybil slid a glance at Vincent’s sister. The way she said the word raised the flesh on the back of Sybil’s neck.

“Your parents were na’ the fanciful sort, were they?” she asked, setting off toward the left. If she had to hazard a guess, the stables were probably closer to the gate, and that would also mean they were farther from the seacoast. That way, the horses wouldn’t be in the elements should a storm blow in. It would also make it quicker to prepare them and ride from the estate, all of which would have been considered when designing a keep of this magnitude and permanency. She already surmised that the builder of Castle Danze had made certain of the elements before placing the front portal to the west, where storms rarely came.

“Why do you ask that?” the girl at her side asked.

“I’ve decided to guess at your name since you will na’ assist me with it. I am gathering clues, much as I suspect you do with your time. Fanciful people create fanciful names for their offspring. Your sister is named Mary Elizabeth. Your brother is Vincent. Both sound to be steeped in the family history and were probably used oft. I say it as a notion and wait for the answer from you.”

The girl beside her stumbled. Sybil smiled at that and kept walking. The corner of the keep blended with the ground, making it impossible to tell where the stone being walked across went skyward to make the walls. There wasn’t a perfect delineation of a corner, either; it was more a five-sided affair, which would gain one a circular center such as the tower she’d been in this morn. She picked her way through shrubbery and rubble that had fallen from the tower at some point, before being rewarded with the smell of manure and the warm presence of a large number of horses.

The castle stables were just where she’d suspected they would be, away from the elements, and looked to have been added later since the rock was a differing shade. Such a thing was probably normal in castle-building, although Sybil hadn’t much knowledge of it. The original structure might not have even had stables, or if it did, they might have been wood and needed replacement later.

The fire they’d suffered hadn’t reached the stables. That was another bit of knowledge. There was a steady breeze coming in from the sea, bringing the sea scent with it and raising gooseflesh with the chill bite it contained. Sybil pulled her shawl closer as she walked.

“Mayhap I doona’ wish to tell you,” the girl at her side said.

“You already have,” Sybil answered. She nearly laughed as the girl stumbled to a halt.

The interior of the stable was dim and sheltered from the wind, making it much warmer than outside. The wagon they’d traveled in was against one wall. Sybil walked over to it and climbed in, finding her locked apothecary trunk still there. As well as her other trunk, the one containing her clothing. The lass had said Vincent was welcome, and the elder sister, Mary Elizabeth, had mentioned a homecoming banquet. If that were true, it didn’t appear that his new wife was as welcome. She gathered a couple of gowns and started adding vials to the pile.

“You should assign someone to fetch that for you.”

The lass was saying it as she climbed in beside Sybil, her slight size doing little to sway the structure.

“I’m accustomed to taking care of things myself,” Sybil replied. “I see nae reason to change that now…and for a certain na’ here.”

“What’s wrong with here?” the girl asked.

Sybil finished and relocked the trunk before she spoke. “The laird has returned. He is na’ welcome. Or if he is, ’tis divided. The eldest sister lives with dishonor. The youngest sister plays with others’ emotions, with little care as to the result. And the entire estate reeks of ill-will and pain.”

“You canna’ hold Myron Carrick’s pain against us,” the girl said.

Sybil sighed loudly. “I doona’ speak of young Carrick. I speak of the fire that killed your parents, changed your sister’s destiny, and chased Vincent from here. I speak of the punishment Edward Carrick sustained. The one that killed him. And I speak of the fact that Vincent takes the blame. This is the pain that none speak of and none face. You ken?”

The girl’s mouth fell open, verifying the accuracy of those assumptions, and Sybil scooted past her with the bundle she’d gathered.

“Are you coming with me Margaret?” she asked sweetly.

“M-margaret.” The girl stammered on the name.

Sybil’s brows rose. “I’ve taken my first guess to your name. Margaret,” she replied and smiled warmly and saw the other’s surprise. This girl looked to have had much the same upbringing Sybil had. Unwanted and ignored. That gave her an odd sense of kinship with the lass.

“Someone told you, didn’t they?”

Sybil shrugged and kept the smile hidden this time. Then, she cleared her throat. “Come Margaret Danzel. I’ll show you what I’ll make with these herbs, and you can tell me which member of the castle you want revenge on.”

“My brother.” Margaret was huffing on the words, since she’d reached the ground and was skipping as she spoke.

“Vincent?” Sybil kept her face forward as she walked, pulling her shawl more firmly about her head before they were out in the wind again.

“I only have one brother,” Margaret replied.

Sybil grunted a monosyllabic reply.

“Do you love him?” Margaret asked.

Sybil concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and keeping her expression blank. She wasn’t giving anything away until she knew more. A lot more.

“Well?”

They’d reached the five-sided tower, which actually had to be eight-sided. The inner three sides were part of the interior complex. That was another bit of interest and probably added to the stability of the design.

“I have na’ decided it as of yet,” she replied finally.

“I will still kill him. Or at least make him suffer.”

Sybil had the bundle of clothing-wrapped vials held close. His own sister wished him this much harm? What would warrant such a thing? “There’s little need, you ken? He already suffers,” she replied as they reached the front doors.

“There’s every need! He ruined my life!”

“Nae man has that much power, Margaret. Only women do.”

Sybil wended her way through the tables and benches of the great room, intent on the steps leading to the chieftain room where Vincent and she now slept, gathering specific items as she went and adding them to her burden. She picked up a small bowl, a heavy-bottomed tankard, a spoon, then a flagon of what she hoped was water, but if it was ale, it would still do. Heated ale added a potent quality to her brews. She knew Margaret was at her heels. She’d have been surprised if the lass wasn’t.

“What did you mean?” Margaret didn’t even wait for the door to close before starting her questioning. “How can a woman have such power?”

Sybil stirred the fire before she answered and then swung the hooked kettle from the side to sit atop the coals so it would heat. Then she was pouring a measure of liquid in. Then she put the bowl on a table, set the spoon beside it, and placed her bundle beside all of it. She was adding the dried combination of leaves and stems and crushing them with the spoon before she spoke again.

“Most men are na’ like us, Margaret. They doona’ have to be. I doona’ think they would wish it even if they could. They feel things differently, ken things differently. They even pretend differently.”

“How so?” the lass asked.

“Men doona’ ken
why
they do what they do. Their world is a just world. Right and wrong. Just and unjust. Truth and lies.”
They even deny love.
The last words almost left her lips before she shut them tight and pretended to pay attention to the concoction she was just salting the water with.

“Men war. They fight. They use their bodies as a weapon. Always. It is a physical thing with them. They exchange blows oft. They train for such a thing. I watched the Donal laird two seasons past. He’s a prime example of a man steeped in gaining a victory nae matter the cost. Men. They believe everything is a battle. Even love. Everything has a victor. Always. They use their brawn and their might and their minds. They fail to use the most powerful thing.”

“What is that?”

The girl was intrigued despite herself. It sounded in her voice. Sybil stirred the mixture that was just starting to boil, creating a noxious aroma as the dandelion and garlic melded with the ale she’d used. She smiled, imagining the faces Carrick the Younger was going to make when he forced himself to drink it…or most likely when his mother forced him to drink it.

“Men have na’ learned how to beguile. Manipulate. Intrigue and tempt. Use their wiles to warp things…and turn what would have been a loss into a win. This is what most men haven’t managed to do yet. I say most, because my father had a steward who had the ability. He just dinna’ have the expertise.”

“And you do?”

Sybil sighed. “We all do. ’Tis how a woman wins. And how she sways. And how she ruins lives.”

“I doona’ understand.”

Sybil walked over to fetch the tankard, wrapping her shawl about the handle as she did so. Then she was tipping the pot and pouring the steaming liquid into it, filling it almost to the brim again. Then she was setting it on the stone floor and waiting not only for it to cool, but for the leaves to sink to the bottom.

“You have a perfect example of it right here at Castle Danze.”

“We do?”

Sybil picked up the tankard again, holding it away from her as she walked to the door. She started speaking before she got there. “Does Carrick the Elder run his household? Or does the mistress of Carrick have all the power? What do you think?”