Linda Barlow (4 page)

He seemed to hesitate. "Curiosity, mostly. I don't know exactly how long I'll stay."

"You mean you're going back to the slave girls and the corsairs and the cargo holds full of figs and olives and wines and spices? But surely, now that Will's dead, you have responsibilities here." One of which, she added silently, might prove to be the match between the heir to the barony of Whitcombe and herself. "Your father, at least, is bound to think so."

Roger's shoulders lifted in a gesture of indifference. Alexandra noticed an unremembered hardness around his mouth. "What my father thinks and what I agree with are likely to be two very different things."

He changed the subject by asking her to tell him some of the local gossip. Since Alexandra was on friendly terms with almost everyone who lived nearby, she was able to supply him with a steady series of anecdotes. She chattered on freely until they came to a place in the road that caused her to fall silent.

The trail doubled back on itself to avoid a rocky mound, skirting the edge of the small but dense woodland known as Westmor Forest. There were many legends associated with the woodland, which lay in a valley to the south of the former abbey of Westmor. The woods were said to be haunted by demons, and few of the local farmers or villagers cared to venture very far into those gloomy trees.

Alexandra paid no heed to these legends. She loved the forest. She had been playing there since childhood, and nothing unpleasant had ever happened to her; nothing, at least, that could not be traced to human agency. The worst fright she'd had there had occurred when the Trevor boys tied her to a tree at nightfall and left her to the mercy of a horrible shape that crept up on her, howling and shrieking. The demon had turned out to be Roger, clad in one of his mother's fur-lined cloaks, and for once he had succeeded in making her cry.

But there
was
something ominous about the way the forest stretched out a shaggy arm, encroaching on the road at the one spot where wayfarers were hidden from the lookout tower of Whitcombe Castle. "This is where Will's horse took fright and threw him," she explained, pausing underneath a huge oak and pointing to a ditch on the side of the road. "It still seems so difficult to believe. He was an excellent horseman. But he was apparently riding very fast that night, and the physician said that he had been drinking."

Roger also stopped, looking at her rather than at the ditch, giving her another of his deep, unnerving stares. He had a habit of focusing directly into her eyes, as if he wished to discern the thoughts behind her words. "Did he drink excessively?"

"No. I can't recall ever seeing him the worse for drink."

Roger went to peer into the ditch. The road curved sharply just before it.

"There was an old stump in the ditch. Will struck his head on it. He died of a brain fever."

Roger jumped down into the ditch and looked around. He poked around a bit in the damp ground—the ditch had once been a stream, and the earth was muddy there—then climbed out and scraped clay off his boots. "It’s a gloomy spot, isn’t it?"

"Aye, and a perfect place for an ambush." No sooner had she spoken these words than Alexandra frowned, wishing she had more control of her wayward tongue.

"What an uncomfortable thing to say." Roger spoke in a lazy drawl, but his eyes had narrowed ominously. "I trust nobody had a grudge against Will?"

He had expressed the fear that had been haunting her ever since the night Will had been carried up to Whitcombe Castle, his body hanging limp, his hair dark with blood. She was not the only one who thought the accident strange. She had heard that the baron had been asking questions in the village.

"Nobody that I can think of."

Her voice must have betrayed her doubts, for he touched her arm. "But?"

"But it's peculiar the way it happened, that's all."

Roger turned and looked into the woods. The masses of dark green plants were threatening to overgrow the path. "Someone could have hidden there on the edge of the forest and frightened Will's horse at the critical moment. But it would have required precise timing, and besides..." He stopped, his body coming alert. He stared into the thick trees just across from where they stood, and one hand flew to the weapon strapped to his hip.

"What is it?"

She felt a sharp pain in her shoulder as Roger flung her aside and dived into the undergrowth, his blade drawn and flashing. It was not a long sword, she noted, but a shorter curved blade, like a scimitar. There was a scrambling sound as someone tried to run. Alexandra recovered her balance and leapt after him in time to see Roger tackle the figure who had been lurking here.

With his blade to the fellow's throat, Roger dragged his quarry out into the open. He was an ungainly youth with straggling hair and bad teeth. He lay on his back quivering beneath Roger's weapon, his eyes rolling. Sounds of alarm were squeaking out of his throat.

Alexandra dropped to her knees in the dirt beside them, unmindful of the consequences to her skirts. "It's only poor Mad Ned from the village." She placed a restraining hand on Roger's sword arm. "Have a care. You'll cut him with that thing." To the youth she said, "We mean you no harm, Ned. You startled us, that's all."

"Mad Ned?" Roger did not release him.

"He's the village half-wit. He can't talk, and it's not clear how much he understands, but he's harmless, I promise you. Put your scimitar away. This isn't the Moorish coast."

"I'd like to know what the devil he was doing spying on us."

Ned was shaking and vainly trying to squirm away to the safety of Alexandra's skirts. "I’faith, you're suspicious, aren't you? Let him go. He and I are friends. Come, Neddy, let's brush you off, shall we?"

Roger backed off while Alexandra helped the frightened youth to sit up. Slowly, with another wary look at Ned, he sheathed his weapon. "You have some curious friends."

"Aye, like ex-monks, ex-mercenaries, and sea captains," she taunted him. "You've scared him out of his few remaining wits."

Ned's head was twitching back and forth. He stole a closer look at Roger as Alexandra explained to him, "This is the baron's other son, Roger, who's been away for a long time. You needn't be frightened of him, Neddy."

Ned did not appear to find this reassuring. In fact, the more he squinted up at Roger, the more alarmed he became. As Alexandra rose to her feet, he rolled over, jumped up before either of them could stop him, and fled into the woods. Roger tensed for a second as if he might chase him, then relaxed and laughed. "He's not half-witted when it comes to saving his skin, is he?"

"I warrant he's not half-witted at all. He's clever about some things. He knows the forest better than I do, and the birds and animals come when he whistles to them. He's gentle, and he cries when the village children throw stones at him."

While she was speaking, Roger took another look into the ditch. "If only he could talk," she said. "If someone did lay an ambush for Will, Ned might have seen it. He's always in the forest, even at night."

She thought Roger's mouth tightened at this, but he said nothing more as they walked on toward Whitcombe Castle. Rounding a rocky mound, they could see the ancient fortress with its towers, outbuildings and ramparts atop a grassy hill. Although the oldest walls of the outer enclosure were in a state of disrepair, the crenellated keep was still an imposing sight, a symbol of the power and privilege which the Trevor family had long enjoyed. It seemed inconceivable to Alexandra that the eldest son of this noble house could have been done to death in a ditch.

Roger must have felt something similar, for he said, "Doubtless it was an accident, after all. Anything else would be extraordinarily farfetched."

"Aye. Accidents
do
happen." She tried to lighten the mood by teasing him. "Anyway, the only person with a true motive to murder Will was out of the country at the time."

His mouth twisted. "You mean me? What motive did I have?" He glanced up at the buildings on the hill. "A crumbling stronghold which will take my entire patrimony to restore? A minor title at an insignificant court? Some rocky farmland, a sweep of moors, and a few sheep?"

"In sooth, it does sound paltry when you put it like that." He was exaggerating, she knew. The barony of Whitcombe included villages and farms with extensive arable lands, a forest full of valuable timber, a great many flocks of sheep that produced good English wool for market, a stone quarry, several mines, and considerable wealth in the form of gold, silver, and precious jewels. Because of her marriage contract with Will, she was well acquainted with the details.

"We might as well accuse you," he went on. "You didn't want to wed him. What a fortuitous escape." He ran his eyes over her in the same lecherous manner he had employed in the church. "Will they hang you, I wonder? By that sweet neck of yours?"

Alexandra abruptly recalled the old lesson of their childhood: you don't tease Roger unless you're prepared to be repaid in the same coin.

"If you'd been clever, you'd have waited till you'd got yourself a son," he went on. "Then you'd have been a rich widow with dower rights, as well as the mother of the heir. That's what I would have done in your place."

"I'm not so cold-blooded. And neither are you."

He just looked at her. She shivered a little. He had been away for years. How could she know what sort of person Roger had become?

They were within hailing distance of the fortress when the outermost gates opened and several people spilled out onto the road. "They've seen us. Imagine their faces when they realize the stranger is you."

"They know it's me. I sent my party on ahead."

Of course. A man of his position wouldn't travel without an entourage. "There's Alan waiting up by the gate. And this is your father coming out to greet you. Well, my Lord Prodigal, are you ready to enter the lists?"

"Girded for battle, milady." He gave her a fleeting smile before turning to look at the approaching figure of Richard Trevor, his father. His brother, Alan, and his stepmother, Dorcas, the baron's second wife, remained behind at the main gate with a crowd of excited servants while the baron advanced alone.

Roger took a deep breath and blew it out audibly. His face was calm no longer. "Body of Christ. My enemies in the Middle Sea would make merry if they could see me now, quaking in my boots because I'm about to reacquaint myself with my wretched father."

"Quaking?" Alexandra was astonished to hear him confess that he had nerves that could betray him.

"Aye. Do I look as fainthearted as I feel?"

"No, truly, you do not."

"Then I must be an exceptionally good actor."

She laughed, delighted with this glimpse of the man behind the mask, this assurance that his strange and eventful life had not robbed him of his essential self. It had, in fact, made him more approachable, more honest. As a boy, he never would have admitted to fear of any kind.

She caught herself stealing a glance at his beautiful long-fingered hands lacing and unlacing themselves as she assured him that his once-formidable father was probably quaking far more than he was. He quirked his eyebrows at her and, for an instant, a current ran between them. His carnal lips curled in a smile.

He is the heir now, she thought once again, and blushed.

"Go on, Roger," she said quickly to cover her confusion. "Your faithful troops will be right behind you."

"No, I'll meet him alone. Give me a few minutes, will you?"

Roger and the baron walked the last few yards toward each other alone, like duelists meeting against the indifferent blue sky. Who spoke first was impossible to determine from the spot where Alexandra watched, but she did see Roger bow slightly, giving his father a token of respect. After a brief exchange, the baron drew his son closer and saluted him on both cheeks, and then they turned and walked together through the gates of Whitcombe Castle.

Chapter 2

Alexandra sat opposite Roger on the family dais in the great hall that evening, watching in fascination as he cut his meat with an ornately carved knife and speared it with a matching fork. Like everyone else at the long trestle table, Alexandra made do with her fingers, using her knife only when a slab of meat proved particularly tough.