Well, devil take it! This time he might as well hear the true answer to his question!
“I shall hereafter count today among the worst days of my life, and it is not over. We may yet be captured and hauled before the earl, who will not allow our escape to go unpunished. You, he will likely hang. Me, he will confine to my bedchamber until the king decides what to do with me, and I shudder to think of how long that might be! Does that answer your question?”
Rhodri strode over to the door and glanced up and down the eerily quiet street. She’d known this part of town hadn’t seen much improvement since its burning and that honest folk rarely ventured near. She hadn’t known that even the birds and mice tended to shun the area.
Apparently satisfied they were safe for the nonce, Rhodri quit the doorway to ease down beside her and lean against
her
wall, stretching out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles.
’Twas both disconcerting and comforting to have him so near, especially since he appeared to be in an uglier mood than she.
“Had you not pulled us into the cobbler’s shop,” he grumbled, “we might have reached a gate before the guards were alerted.”
She couldn’t refute the truth of his accusation. But she’d not had the heart to forsake Thomas.
“I had no choice.”
He raised an eyebrow, expecting further explanation.
Few living beings knew of her ability to hear the dead. Only her sisters—who both possessed unusual talents of their own—and their husbands. The Easter after Nicole had been sent to Bledloe Abbey, Alberic had brought Gwendolyn to visit. Distress at her brother’s reaction—again battering at her to kill Alberic—had forced Nicole to reveal her ability to hear the dead.
Gwendolyn had informed Emma and Darian.
Nicole hadn’t told anyone at the abbey, for fear of being scorned for possessing an admittedly unnatural ability.
Whether Rhodri believed her or not truly didn’t matter. He could think as he wished, accept or scoff. She heard what she heard, and nothing he could do or say could change that.
“I possess the ability to hear the dead whose spirits are bound to this earth, who for one reason or another cannot pass on to eternity. In the tower, the spirit of Thomas Thatcher begged my help in his quest for forgiveness, and I could not leave Oxford without giving it.”
Rhodri’s eyebrow rose higher, as did his voice. “You risked our lives because you thought you heard some spirit?”
His ire and disbelief stung more than it should. So why did she find herself telling Rhodri the whole of Thomas’s tale of remorse over John the cobbler’s death and his quest for forgiveness?
Through the telling, Rhodri didn’t blink an eyelash, simply stared at her as though seeking to judge her sanity.
So when he had the whole of it, she asked, “If Thomas’s spirit had pleaded mercy from you, would you have denied him knowing he might linger yet another lifetime in that wretched tower, losing hope of ever passing on?”
He hesitated but a moment before stating firmly, “Nicole, dead is dead. The soul goes to heaven or hell or purgatory and does not roam the earth.”
Little he knew!
“Truly? Did you happen to note the cobbler knew who I was talking about, even though both his grandsire and Thomas have been dead for many a year! How would I know about either man, or how both had died, if Thomas had not spoken to me?”
Rhodri shrugged a shoulder. “Perhaps you overheard the tale long ago, and being in the tower where Thomas died reminded you of it, and you thought you heard—”
“If you are about to suggest that my wits have fled, you had best hold your tongue!” Her outburst took her by surprise. Perhaps she cared what Rhodri believed more than she ought. Forcing her ire to calm, she continued.
“This is not the first time I have answered a spirit’s plea for help. With God as my witness, I have told you true why I spoke with the cobbler. Believe as you will, but do not
dare
say I risked our safety on a fanciful whim. Each of us has a purpose in life, and I believe helping spirits is mine.”
He sat quietly for several moments, his expression reflective. “For how long have you believed—beg pardon—have you heard spirits?”
Nicole wasn’t sure if he made an honest attempt to understand or merely humored her. Still, his tone was less reproving, so she answered.
“Since childhood. I was all of ten when my father and brother died. William was the first spirit to speak to me.”
“William? For what reason?”
Nicole inwardly cringed at the memory of how she’d tried to murder her now beloved brother-by-marriage, goaded unmercifully by a dead brother who desired revenge.
“Have you heard the story of my brother’s death at Wallingford?” At Rhodri’s nod, she continued. “William could not accept that he died so young, and he wanted revenge against Alberic for happening to be the man holding the sword that took his life. My brother begged me to kill Alberic, and in my youth and grief, I tried to do as he bade. To my everlasting relief, Alberic easily swept the dagger from my hand before I could do him an injury.”
Rhodri glanced down at the weapon in his boot. “This dagger?”
“Nay. That dagger now hangs in the keep’s great hall, among the weapons of other of Camelen’s lords. I took this one to the abbey with me as a keepsake, as a reminder of my brother. It has since become a reminder to never aid a spirit who wishes to do harm to the living.”
“These… spirits. They seek you out, begging your favor?”
“They speak to anyone within hailing distance of wherever the spirit is bound to earth, which is usually the place where they died or are buried. I know of no others but me who can hear them, so I try to help those I can.”
Except William. Him she couldn’t help, because he wouldn’t let her.
Nor did she understand why she could hear him at the abbey. William had died in battle near Wallingford Castle, several leagues south of Oxford, and been buried at Camelen, in Shropshire, nigh on the Welsh border. Perhaps it was because he’d been the first spirit she’d heard—and she’d often wondered if William hadn’t forced upon her the ability to hear spirits—or because during his life she’d so adored her brother with all of her being that his voice could reach her no matter where she might be.
“If what you say is true, and beg pardon, Nicole, but I am not convinced you hear spirits, then you did Thomas a great service. May he now rest in peace.”
Rhodri’s concession wasn’t as complete as it could be, but she admitted that what she’d told him might be difficult for anyone to believe. At least his anger for pulling him into the cobbler shop had ebbed.
For as elated as she’d been at her success when coming out of the cobbler’s shop, now doubts began to prick at her conscience.
“Was it enough, do you think, that John’s daughter had forgiven Thomas? The grandson certainly wasn’t in a forgiving mood. I must wonder if the grandson’s opinion matters, since his grandsire must have died long before his birth.” She sighed. “Always before I have known if a spirit’s bonds were broken and it passed on. With Thomas I am not sure.”
Rhodri’s eyes narrowed. “We are not returning to the tower.”
“Nay, that would be foolhardy.”
His expression said he still considered her pulling him into the cobbler’s shop foolhardy, but she was grateful he didn’t voice the opinion. He leaned his head back against the wall, and a soft smile touched the lips she’d recently discovered were both warm and enticing.
“I remember a time, princess, when you would not have taken a step out of your way to show anyone a kindness.”
Nicole groaned, knowing precisely when she’d been unkind to Rhodri. “Is it your intention to
now
take me to task for the horrible thing I did as a child?”
His smile widened. “I merely state that I believe you may have changed—somewhat—since our last encounter.”
“You mean to say you no longer believe I am so pampered I am unable to strap on my own sandals?”
“’Twas ungracious of me to have said so.”
“’Twas mean of William to repeat your words to me. Still, I should not have attacked you.”
Kicking Rhodri in the shin had been bad enough, but when her sandal-shod foot slipped, sending her sprawling in the mud and ruining her best tunic, she’d shunned his efforts to help her up, crying and calling him a horrid beast.
Naturally, her unleashed rage had drawn a crowd, including her uncle Connor, and she’d done nothing to soften the reprimand Rhodri so stoically accepted for the offense of pushing a little girl into the mud. An offense he hadn’t committed. Connor had denied Rhodri his harp and the privileges of the hall for an entire summer, further assigning the lad to muck out the stables for the duration of the punishment.
“Why did you not tell Connor what truly happened, that ’twas all my fault?”
Rhodri shrugged a shoulder. “Given your upset, I did not think Connor would believe me. Besides, you were the princess and I was nothing. Best to take the punishment and be done with it.”
Said as though he’d found it to his advantage to accept the reprimand rather than accuse an overindulged girl of five for tossing a fit and muddying her own tunic.
“Never did it occur to me to beg your pardon until I was older and realized I truly ought to make amends. I never did, so I will offer my apology now. I also ask your forgiveness for getting us into this mess. Had I sent you on your way when I ought have, you would not have been tossed into that dreadful tower.” She waved a hand at the crumpled building in which they took shelter. “And we would not be sitting here wondering when the guards will search this area of town.”
Without comment, Rhodri rose and again eased his head out the doorway, apparently with the same result as before, seeing no one and hearing nothing to alarm him.
“This is not all your fault, Nicole. On the road from the abbey to Oxford, twice I could have escaped.”
“Why did you not?”
“Connor sent me to fetch you, and I could hardly allow the earl to shut you up behind castle walls without my being nearby. So I stayed, though I would have preferred a pallet in the hall, to which I am accustomed when in noble houses, than to being locked in the tower.”
“So now we are merely trapped in the town.” She rubbed her arms, telling herself the sudden chill came from the breeze allowed in by the cracks in the walls, not from a jolt of fear. “We should not tarry here overlong. We need a plan to get past the gate before the guards close it for the night.”
“I am thinking on it, but you are right, we should try to escape before we fall prey to less gentle talons than those of the guards.”
Rhodri hovered near the doorway, keeping watch, his thoughts bouncing between how to escape the town and what Nicole had told him about hearing spirits.
Aware of many tales of ghosts and dragons, and various other strange sightings and beings, but never having seen or heard them for himself, he believed them all stuff of myth and legend.
There were no dragons left to be slain. Ghosts didn’t exist.
Still, Nicole seemed so sure she’d heard the voice of a dead man speak to her in the tower. Though he couldn’t fully explain how she’d known so much about John and Thomas, he reasoned there must be an explanation other than the one she’d given him.
If she’d truly heard a spirit, ’twould explain her odd behavior in the tower. He wanted to believe her, if only for the relief of knowing he hadn’t hurt her overmuch with his ill use of her throat. Damn hard to accept her story as true, though.
He shifted his stance and glanced up at the sky. Only a few hours of daylight remained. Nicole was right about not spending the night in this place. Though the building was sound enough to provide shelter, he didn’t trust the local ruffians to mind their own business. The few he’d seen on the street didn’t inspire the least sense of safety.
The way to best safeguard Nicole from both the ruffians and the earl was to leave Oxford.
But how to get past the guards at the gates? Without his horse and sword, he couldn’t make a fast, bold run at them. Without coin, he couldn’t bribe the guards. Without their cloaks, they couldn’t hope to sneak through.
A cloak to cover Nicole would be more than welcome. She looked damn fine in her blue gown, the fabric soft and so snug it hugged every lovely curve. Those curves would tempt a eunuch, and he was a healthy male, possessed of all the normal, base urges of his sex. He couldn’t help but be aware of Nicole’s bountiful charms—breasts large enough to fill a man’s hands, a slender waist, and a nicely rounded bottom.
Did she realize how temptingly her bottom swayed as she walked? The gentle yet provocative swish from one side to the other made it impossible to ignore that the adorable child had become a beautiful woman.
Even now, as she sat on the dirt floor, leaning back on one of the building’s few sturdy planks, her pert chin tilted upward to expose the throat he was glad he hadn’t bruised, the temptation of the feast beneath the gown beckoned.
He quickly squashed the pangs of a hunger having naught to do with food, forcing his attention back to facing the next obstacle on their journey to Wales.
With other options too dangerous to consider, they must resort to guile. Except the one strategy he thought might work involved using Nicole in a ruse that could prove disastrous if it failed.
At least, disastrous for him. Nicole was right. The earl could simply hang him to be rid of him.
Should the worst happen, Nicole wouldn’t suffer unduly. From the moment he’d decided to use her in his escape from the tower, he’d taken care to make it appear as though Nicole were being forced to accompany him. The earl would hold her gently, if well guarded, until the king finished his negotiations and married her off to a Welsh noble.
Connor planned to do the same with Nicole once she was within his grasp. But at least Connor would marry her to someone who supported the unity of Wales, not someone who supported the rule of England’s king.
Did Nicole have any notion of the reason for Connor’s offer? He didn’t think so, and he didn’t believe it a good time to mention it now.