The Crimson Lady (29 page)

“Stop!” she called out, holding up her hands in a plea for silence as she paced in front of them. “You must hear me in this, I beg of you!”

To Braedan’s surprise, most of the outlaws, blood-thirsty as they were, began to quiet, shocked into it perhaps, by the strangeness of seeing a woman speaking out so. The fact that the woman was Fiona, who was not only beautiful but also probably recognizable to some as the Crimson Lady in her scarlet-hued gown, didn’t hurt the cause, either. Braedan kept close enough to offer her aid if she needed it, while still keeping far enough to the side to give her the freedom to say what she wished.

“I have as much of a claim against Kendrick de Lacy, Lord Draven as any of you here,” she said, her voice wavering at first, before becoming stronger as she met Braedan’s gaze, seeming to draw strength from his presence. “And while I, too, wish to see him pay for the crimes he has committed, I do not think he should die this way. It would be too easy. If you continue now, he will perish, but to what end, other than to say it is done? There will be no investigation, no trial before the public, no sentencing or disgrace to be endured. Nay, all that will come of it will be renewed persecution of us as outlaws, for his unsanctioned murder.”

“She’s right. Listen to her,” Draven said hoarsely
from his precarious perch above her, only to be jerked to silence again by one of his captors.

“It is not for your sake that I am saying this, Draven,” Fiona answered, skewering him with her gaze, “but for the sake of everyone here.” She looked back to the gathering of outlaws. “I say it for all of you—for my brother and his people, as well as for myself and the man I love,” she continued, letting her stare shift to Braedan with her feelings for him shining full in her gaze.

Eustace Coterel had stood quietly near the front of the crowd while Fiona had spoken, his arms folded over his barrel chest, but now he broke his silence. “Aye, Giselle, ’tis true that you more than most should have a say in what happens next. And yet if we do not take action against Draven now, none may ever come. He could go free, as he has so oft before when he’s run afoul of the very law he is supposed to uphold, relyin’ on his slippery tongue and padded purse to get him off. Justice will not be served.”

“But an even greater injustice will come to pass when some of you are hunted down and killed for taking part in the deed of killing him. And it would be an injustice of the worst sort indeed, if a man like Braedan de Cantor is condemned to spend the rest of his life in hiding, trapped as an outlaw—first by the despicable actions of this man,” she said, her expression intense as she jerked her head toward Draven, “and then by the lot of you, thanks to what you’re planning to do here. You cannot go through with it; you cannot hang Draven this day.”

“That is a statement with which I’ll have to agree!” a man’s voice called from the very back of the crowd, near the door from the stone stairway. The sun was finally beginning to dip behind the horizon, setting in a brilliant
blaze of color so that at first Braedan couldn’t make out the identity of the man who’d spoken. But then he stepped forward and Braedan breathed an inner sigh of relief at the sight of the distinctive blue robes and chains of office that he wore. It was Thomas Romain, one of the two sheriffs of London.

The sheriff moved forward under an aura of command, backed by several score of his soldiers, who spilled from the stairway and around from the other corners of the rectangular battlements, having attained the wall through other doors positioned around the keep. The outlaws backed up, swords raised, though none of them were foolhardy enough, Braedan realized, to attempt an engagement with such a show of force; that action would have been disastrous, it was clear, thanks to the sheriff’s superior numbers.

“No one is going to hang this day,” the sheriff called out, “though whether or not a hanging—or several,” he said, letting his pointed stare shift round the outlaws, “will be needed eventually, remains to be seen.”

“Hang the whole lot of them,” Draven snarled, glowering at the men who still held him, as well as the outlaws clustered below him. “I confess I am glad to see you arrived, Tom. Send your men forward and place all these ruffians under arrest. Especially these two.” He nodded at Fiona and Braedan where they stood together again, Fiona having returned to Braedan’s side upon the sheriff’s entrance. “They led this despicable hunt of me, and I’ll see them rot for it.”

“No one said the investigation would be focused on the outlaws alone, Draven. You have some answering to do yourself based upon what I heard from young de Cantor.”

Draven gave a snort. “All lies. The young one is no different than his brother; they’re both hypocrites and thieves. But we’ll sort through all of that in due time, Tom. Just hurry your men along and we’ll get about it as soon as I’m down from here.”

The outlaws milled about uneasily, not able to leave, thanks to the unexpectedly numerous ranks of the sheriff’s men, yet unable to fight them for the same reason. They weren’t fool enough to resist this show of power, but they weren’t going to make it easier for the law to take their prize captive, either; clustering together, they formed a kind of barrier around Draven’s position so that it took the soldiers time and effort to penetrate the masses to get to their goal.

The sheriff made a call for torches, to combat the increasing dark from the setting of the sun, as Draven waited for the guards to reach him, needing them to untie his hands so that he could get down from the shadowy ledge without killing himself. In the meantime, he took the opportunity to sneer down at Braedan and Fiona, until it was all Braedan could do not to yank him from the stone outcrop and throttle the expression from his face. If not for Fiona, he might have done just that, but he didn’t want to risk upsetting her more than she already had been that day. Nay, not even for the pleasure of making Draven choke on his own teeth.

But then Draven was reckless enough to start talking, and Braedan found himself clenching his jaw until it ached in order to remain still.

“How does it feel, knowing you’ve been bested yet again, de Cantor?” his uncle mocked softly. “Your precious men of justice have arrived, and with them my re
turn to power. Coterel was right when he said I’d never be prosecuted if I left this place alive. I won’t. Because most people aren’t as stupidly honorable as you. Money can buy anything, man…aye, even a favorable verdict in the king’s own court.”

“It can’t buy everything, Draven!”

The quavering voice had rung out from somewhere above the battlements—even above Draven himself, poised as he still was on the ledge near the crenellations. Fivescore outlaws, soldiers, and lawmen turned to see who had spoken, including Braedan and Fiona, who gasped with worry at the sight of Richard, perched atop the roof of the main keep across from them. The massive stone structure towered above the open span of the battlements where everyone was standing, the top of the roof reaching at least twenty feet over Draven’s head.

“It cannot buy a life back,” Richard shouted out tremulously. “Nay, not Elizabeth’s, though you stole it from her as surely as if you sliced her through with that dagger you’re so fond of wielding.”

“Stupid boy,” Draven muttered. “What do you think you’re—”

“Come down from there, Richard,” Braedan called out, cutting Draven’s insult short. His uncle wisely chose to remain silent. “You cannot change anything by joining her in death, lad. It is a long drop from there and is sure to be unpleasant if you slip. Come down now.”

Faintly, Braedan could see Richard shake his head, and he tensed, desperate over his brother’s safety. It was becoming difficult to see his face clearly in the dark, but Braedan knew it would only take one false step for
Richard to go tumbling down to his death on the battlements.

“I’m not planning to meet Elizabeth just yet Braedan,” Richard answered, his voice strained with emotion as he suddenly shifted to stand at the very edge of the roof, drawing exclamations of shock and surprise from the onlookers. “Nor will anyone else meet with her this night; sweet soul that she was, she is in a better place—a paradise the likes of which I can only aspire in my dreams. But I might achieve it yet, brother. For though I am not the honorable and good man that you are, I am still a de Cantor, and like all de Cantors, I live only to see justice done.”

He moved again, this time to lift something, and in that instant, Braedan felt the sickening jolt of realization. But he was too late to stop what was about to happen. Oh, God, too late…

“And my justice demands that I tell you, Kendrick de Lacy, Lord Draven, that you have been judged and found guilty of grievous crimes, for which you must now face a reckoning,” Richard called out, his voice cracking and ragged with restrained sobs that seemed to shake him, as he notched an arrow into his bow, pulled back, and took aim.

After a beat of heavy silence, he growled hoarsely, “Now go to hell, where you belong.”

With that, he let fly his arrow, swift and true. The deadly whisper of its passing filled the air above the battlements for a moment, followed by the dull, thudding sound of its entry. Draven gasped, jerking to utter stillness midbreath, his eyes widening in disbelief as he stared down at the quivering bolt embedded in his chest. It all lasted but an instant, yet it seemed forever
before soundlessly he began to tip, the force of the arrow shot taking him over the crenellation and out of sight….

Toppling him into the eternity of oblivion.

Chepston Hall

One week later

I
t was to be the day of reckoning for them all.

Fiona stood in the cavernous main chamber of Chepston Hall, where she, Braedan, and the other outlaws had been kept under heavily guarded house arrest for the past week, listening to the rain pattering on the costly, glazed windows and awaiting the sheriff’s return to pronounce his decision in the inquiry over Draven’s death. Richard was the only one of all who had been present that fateful night not allowed free run of Draven’s walled-in estate; he’d been kept under separate guard in a locked chamber on the upper floor thanks to the seriousness of the charges brought against him.

Of course Braedan had been sick with worry, and much of his time these seven days had been passed be
hind closed doors with the sheriff or others involved in the inquest, using his knowledge of law and his birthright in the judiciary system to help provide the officials with information on where to seek the evidence that would prove the outlaws’—and Richard’s—case against Draven. She knew he understood better than any, that if it was decided that the attack on Draven’s estate wasn’t warranted, many of the outlaws would face actual trials, with time spent in the hellish bowels of Newgate, the Clink, or Marshalsea, awaiting their turn in court. And if Richard was charged as guilty in the unjustifiable murder of Draven, a nobleman with whom he’d shared a family connection…

Fiona shuddered to think what kind of death the lad would endure for it.

“De Cantor had better come through for us, or there may be another murder done before we’re finished,” she heard one of the Coterels mutter from within the cluster of them standing behind the stone arch a few paces from her. “Aye. If we’re goin’ to be hanged in the end, we might as well have our own bit o’ justice first,” another who was standing there added.

They couldn’t see her, she knew; but she’d been aware of the steadily rising tensions among all of the outlaws being held there while the inquest dragged on, realizing that it was a minor miracle none of them had yet come to blows with each other. The sheriff had seemed cognizant of that as well, hurrying the investigation so that it might be completed that day, with the results meaning either a mass transport of them all to prisons, or their release and exodus back to their own homes and communities. Either way it would get them separated from one another and out of Chepston.

“How goes it, sister?” Will murmured, coming to stand with her as she waited for Braedan to emerge from his final meeting with the sheriff and the lesser officials.

“As well as can be expected.” She clenched her hands together, her entire body tight with worry. “I want this over with now, Will, and yet I am afraid of what may happen. It is both a longing and a dread, and I cannot seem to reconcile it in myself.”

“I understand,” he answered sympathetically. “I, for one, will be glad never to set eyes on this cursed house or its lands again, I can tell you. I didn’t think I’d ever feel as heartily tired of a place as grand as this one, but every corner of it seems tainted with Draven’s presence, so that I cannot draw in a free breath of air. ’Tis a worse prison, perhaps, than one of those to which we may be sent come nightfall.”

“Pray God it does not come to that,” Fiona murmured, staring with trepidation at the door closeting those who would be making that decision for them. As if on the wings of her thoughts, it opened, and Braedan strode through. The mass of outlaws, all of whom had been gathered in the main chamber again for the reading of the charges and verdicts by the inquest officials, quieted at his entrance, and it seemed as though every gaze was trained on him as he approached her.

“What is it, Braedan?” she asked him, searching his face. He looked somber—more so than he’d seemed since the moment Richard had fired his fatal shot at Draven—and it sent a ripple of fear through her.

“Nothing,” he answered, taking the hand she offered him and squeezing it tight. “I’ve done all I can, Fiona. It is up to Providence now. The sheriff will be entering this chamber in a moment to read out his findings, but as one
of the accused I was not given privilege of hearing the inquest officials’ final decision. I do know that a parchment arrived this morning from King Edward himself, though again, I know not what it contained.”

Before she could question him further, the soldier near the door from which Braedan had come straightened at a signal from someone within that secluded chamber. Calling out loudly for order, he pounded the base of his spear on the wooden floor of the great hall, an action that was repeated by every guard positioned at intervals around the spacious chamber.

“All will rise and assemble for the conclusion of the official inquest into the detainment and death of Kendrick de Lacy, Lord Draven!”

At that proclamation, a fresh stream of heavily armed soldiers came through all of the doors to take up post standing guard with those already in place at every portal; Fiona felt a sinking sensation, knowing they had been sent to keep order and subdue any potential uprising by the outlaws should the verdict read prove unpopular. Braedan kept her hand clasped warmly in his own as he led her and Will toward the front of the assembly of outlaws. They were all gathered, she noted ironically, in almost the very same spot that they had chosen as the stage for Draven’s impromptu trial on the night of his death. And though she felt no remorse over his loss, she couldn’t help but shudder to think that they all might end this day with naught but the prospect of facing the same end that he had come to, only without a crossbow bolt to speed their way.

The large door at the front of the chamber opened again and the sheriff came through, followed by the London coroner, and half a dozen violet-robed alder
men, all of whom had participated in the investigation and deliberation of findings. The men took their positions just behind the sheriff and coroner, who took places standing behind the large table that had been placed there for the purposes of the day’s proceedings.

The sheriff unrolled a parchment he carried, spreading it on the table before him and weighting the corners with fist-sized stones. Then he glanced over what was written there one last time before straightening and calling out in an official tone, “Let this conclusion of inquest begin. The city council has examined the evidence presented concerning the detainment and subsequent death of Kendrick de Lacy, Viscount Draven, a peer of King Edward’s realm and sheriff of Alton in the neighboring shire, and has reached a decision in the culpability of the outlaws and one woman involved in the uprising, as well as the responsibility of Lord Draven’s ward, one Richard de Cantor, in Lord Draven’s death. This reading will address the council’s findings for each.”

Fiona looked at Braedan, wondering if he was feeling the same sense of foreboding that was gnawing at her. But he looked calm, his back straight as he faced the panel, and his gaze resolute. “Where is Richard?” she whispered to him, as the sheriff paused before reading out the findings.

“He’ll be brought down just before the findings in Draven’s death are read,” he told her quietly, leaning in to speak, but keeping his gaze focused on the sheriff and the council.

Nodding, she took a deep breath and steeled herself to listen to the sheriff as he read the charges, then called off the names of each of the nearly twoscore outlaws involved in the uprising against Draven, noting those who
were deceased as a result of the action. As the only female participant, her own name was read last. And then he announced the council’s findings and verdict.

“As concerns the charges against the aforementioned defendants, of organized revolt and kidnapping of said deceased within the estate of Chepston Hall, with the intent to commit murder, this inquest has found that sufficient evidence exists concerning the guilt of the deceased to warrant the action undertaken in attempt to gain relief from said deceased’s corruption of office, use of bribery, forced seduction, and other false practices.”

A hum of surprise swept through the chamber, and Fiona sagged with relief against Braedan. He pressed a kiss to her brow, closing his eyes for a moment as he breathed in deeply and murmured a prayer of thanks.

The sheriff continued, “In light of said findings, His Royal Highness, King Edward, has, for the price of a reasonable fee, payable to the crown by each defendant involved in the revolt, offered a writ of full pardon, extending his thanks, as sovereign, for the furtherance of justice in His kingdom. Also upon conclusion of these proceedings, the two defendants of former rank, Clinton Folville, Baron of Herrick, and Sir Braedan de Cantor shall have restored to them all rights of status, titles, and holdings, while all other defendants in this case shall be free to return to their homes and previous trades, with the admonition that any further unlawful activity undertaken will render said writs of pardon worthless.”

“What in hell are we supposed to do, then, man?” one of the Coterels yelled from the back of the chamber. “Many of us have been outlawed for a decade or more and have no trade and no homes to return to, even if we wanted to pay for the right to go back to ’em!”

The sheriff paused, looking out toward the part of the crowd with a nod. “A useful question to be sure. However, King Edward has shown his further mercy and wisdom by extending the following offer: Any of you wishing to serve Him in His army and travel to warlike climes abroad may do so and thereby obtain a writ of pardon without further fee required.”

More grumblings continued at that, but the tenor was more accepting than it had been upon the first part of the proclamation of pardon. However, everyone fell silent again upon the coroner’s call to bring forth the final prisoner in the inquest. Fiona felt Braedan tense beside her, his gaze fixed on the door through which two armed guards led the shackled Richard. Fiona felt a little flare of relief on sight of him; he didn’t seem to have been treated badly in the week since they’d seen him last.

He was led to a position in front of the chamber, nearer to the table at which the inquest panel was seated. As he was led past them, he caught Braedan’s gaze, his own showing his anxiety, but it was laced with joy at seeing his brother again. In the next moment, however, all of them were forced to direct their attention back to the sheriff, as he had begun to read the charges and verdict of the council in this final aspect of the case.

“The council finds that Richard de Cantor did knowingly and willfully take the life of his relation by marriage, Kendrick de Lacy, Viscount Draven, an action that is against the just precepts of this kingdom, and as such is punishable under law.”

Fiona’s heart plummeted with grief, aching for Braedan and for Richard, until the Sheriff continued with his statement, sending her emotions in an entirely different direction.

“However, upon examination of the facts in this case—particularly the grievous injustice done to one Elizabeth Haversom, foster sister to the accused—we, the council, find Richard de Cantor to be justified in the vengeful action taken against Lord Draven, and hereby remand him to the care and custody of his brother, Sir Braedan de Cantor, with all rights and privileges restored.”

A shout went up then, and Braedan gave a whoop of his own, turning to Fiona and picking her up to swing her around, both of them laughing aloud, before he set her down and strode to meet his brother in a fierce embrace. Tears glistened in Fiona’s eyes as she watched them, her heart filled with so much gladness she thought it might burst. Will came up next to her, smiling and hugging her close with an arm round her waist, as the other outlaws began to ready themselves to depart Chepston Hall as free men.

“This official inquest is ended,” called the coroner, shouting above the swelling noise of the crowd. “Your writs of pardon may be obtained at Guildhall, London, for payment of said fee or agreement to join the king’s army. And now you are free to—”

“Wait!”

The room went quiet at the powerful voice echoing through it, and Fiona went rigid with surprise. It was Braedan who had shouted the command. He had released his brother to stride forward toward the sheriff, calling out, “We cannot leave. There is yet one more proclamation to be read!”

The sheriff, coroner, and aldermen looked as bewildered as Fiona felt at Braedan’s strange announcement; that feeling only increased when he leapt onto the table,
standing tall so that he towered over the chamber, to be easily seen and heard by all.

“I beg this assembly’s indulgence for one moment more,” he said, looking over the crowd, “for though I share your eagerness to leave this place and begin life anew, I cannot do so without answering one last charge, this one made to me several months ago.”

He paused for a moment, his gaze seeking Fiona’s; when they met, it was as if she were melting under the force of the love she saw there. Love for her so strong that the rest of the world around them seemed to fade, leaving only her and Braedan, enclosed in a sphere of warmth and light.

“You see those months ago, on one bitter, rain-soaked night,” he continued, “I pushed my way into a shop in Hampshire and received a charge the likes of which I had never known before. It was a call to see things differently, to open my eyes to the beauty and truth that are oft hidden beneath other guises—to stop judging the world and those in it as simply dark or light. A very special woman offered me this challenge—”

Braedan stopped to hold out his hand to her, and she moved toward him, feeling as if she were floating, his handsome face wavering for the happy tears stinging her eyes. He helped her up on the table to stand beside him, taking both of her hands in his. His love for her was clear in his expression, so that even if he’d not spoken another word, she’d have known the feelings in his heart. But he did speak more, sending joy spilling through her and making her want to laugh and cry at the same time for the beauty of it.

“It was this woman who gave me that gift,” he murmured, “a gift of herself, most precious and pure. And
now that I have answered her charge, I wish to offer her one of my own, one that will allow us to throw aside the pretenses under which we have had to labor for so long.”