The Herald's Heart (15 page)

Was that a light glimmering ahead? The trickle of water running over stones met his ears, and he emerged from the forest to the edge of a glade where water from a brook gleamed black against the patchy mist. Flattened grasses marked the path he followed as it turned upstream. He guided his horse in their wake and halted near a small bush where the path stopped at a pool, probably the wellspring of the brook.

From his saddle, he surveyed the area and sighed. No Larkin. ’Twas too late to search farther. He would be lucky to find his way back to Hawking Sedge without mishap. He made to turn his mount when he heard a small gasp. He pulled his horse to a stop once more and swiveled his head, searching out the source of the noise. There, in the place where the mist spilled out from the trees on the far side of the pool.

He had seen her like this before, a slim pale column in a gloomy night. But he had not known her then. Did not truly know her now. Although he had witnessed evidence of her strength, her courage, her quickness of wit. He had heard the tale of sorrows that she survived. He had seen glimpses of her true beauty. He had touched her and desired her with a longing that increased with every meeting. That desire surged through him anew. His fear melted as the fog before the sun. She stood poised at the edge of the wood, her arms filled with strange blooms. They shivered with each breath that trembled forth to blend with the mist.

She was cold. Talon dismounted, absently tethered his horse to a bush beside her steed, and strode for the opposite side of the pool, removing his cloak as he went. He kept his gaze on her and knew the moment she recognized him.

“Nay.” The flowers dropped to the ground as she turned to leave.

He heard the word whispered above the water, the only sound in the darkling hush of the forest.

“Wait. Please.” His plea echoed back, sounding desperate even in his own ears.

She halted before she had taken a full stride, then shifted to watch his approach.

What held her, he could not tell. He only knew relief that she remained.

Not soon enough, he stood before her, the gilt fire of her hair less than a hand’s length from his reach. “You are cold.” He held out his cloak.

Mute, she took it from him and wrapped it around her, shielding herself from the damp and her form from his sight.

“Are you well?”

She nodded.

Damn, why did the woman not speak?

“Where is your escort?”

“We are so close to the abbey, I sent Albert to the keep. I did not want him to miss his supper. I promised him I would stay at the abbey until he could come and get me tomorrow morning.”

“A week on midden duty will teach Albert better than to leave an assigned post.”

“Nay, do not punish him for following my orders.”

“He must learn that you may not order him or any other of the keep’s guards. His lesson will teach the others as well.”

“I understand. All the same, I will ask his forgiveness when I next see him.”

Talon shrugged. “As you will.”

“You could have sent Cleve or someone else. Why did you trouble yourself to find me?”

“I came because ...” Because of what? Aedwin? Because he feared for her life? For duty’s sake? All of those were true but so small a piece of what drove him that he could not say the words. In the end, he said the only thing he knew that might keep him sane and her safe. “You are my father’s wife and under my protection." He held his hand out to her. “Come, I will take you home to Hawksedge.”

Yes, Hawksedge was home for him as no place else had ever been, and he had longed for home since the day he left. The wrongs done him, like the wrongs done Larkin, would be put right. One way or another, he would gain Hawksedge to hold. He would not risk that even to have Larkin share his bed. Nor would he risk their souls. Maybe after all was settled, she in her home and he in his, if the decisions made about her marriage allowed, they might meet and decide to become lovers. For now, friendship and trust were the most they could have.

• • •

Larkin stared at him. He was not humming or teasing, nor was his reason in the least suggestive. She should be grateful. She was grateful, but honest enough to admit a small amount of regret. He would take her home, he said. All she had to do was trust him—this man whose very presence caused betrayal in her body and upheaval in her life. She could do without the upheaval and would be glad when she did not have to see him every day. But that time was not now. Her glance fell to the ground.

“The flowers.” She pointed at them.

He nodded, bent, and, with his outstretched hand, swept the blooms into his arms. “Come.” He turned and walked toward his horse, where he placed the blossoms gently into his saddlebags.

She followed slowly, careful not to trip over the trailing hem of his cloak. Before she had traveled halfway round the pool, he returned and scooped her up into his arms. She had felt his embrace before, but she had not known him then. Did not know him now, although she had seen his strength, his dogged pursuit of justice, his patience with the weak and powerless, his gentle care of all women, most of all herself, even when she least deserved such care.

He set her in her saddle, took her reins in his hand, and mounted his own horse. He did not speak, and she let the silence grow, uncertain of what she wanted, content simply to be with him.

Too soon, they arrived at the abbey. Talon dismounted and laid a hand on her arm. “Stay here,” he said. Then, lifting the saddlebags from his horse, he went to the abbey gate. His touch lingered on her arm like the warmth of his body held in the cloak that kept the cold of night and loneliness at bay.

Light spilled from the open gate where two nuns with lanterns and baskets accepted the flowers. Larkin watched him return, lithe and strong, supple like the mist. She thanked God for the weak moonlight that allowed her to feast her eyes on him but kept her longing gaze from Talon’s sight.

He replaced the now empty saddlebags and settled a hand at her waist.

“You told Albert you would rest the night at the abbey. If that is truly what you wish, say so now, and I will take you to the nun who waits at the gate. Someone will come for you on the morrow.”

Someone, not him, how very wise of him. She should not resent such care, especially when offered the escape she needed, the chance to contemplate her future and decide her course of action without his disturbing presence. “Yes, please. I will stay the night here.”

“As you will.”

He saw her to the gate, handing her into the nun’s care.

She entered and the gate closed. What would happen when it opened tomorrow? Would she abandon her pursuit of justice, of owning Rosewood Castle? Would she cast aside her marriage vows and risk her hope of heaven for the few days of loving she and Talon might share? Nay she would do neither. She had no need of contemplation to know what course was right. She did, however, need to seek the strength to resist temptation. She would spend this night in prayer.

Pounding on his bedchamber door followed by loud voices woke Talon from sleep made restless by dreams of Larkin, an arrow piercing her heart and her dead eyes accusing him of thinking trust and friendship enough to keep her safe. He never should have left her at the abbey. She was probably safer there than here, but he still longed to have her near, even if he could not touch her.

“I tell ye, Father,” Cleve shouted. “Sir Talon will nay thank ye for waking him because o’ a locked door.”

“That door guards the earl’s chapel,” a strident voice answered. “He should have answered when I knocked. He did not even tell me to go away. I tell you something is wrong.”

“But th’ earl’s not here. Went off on his own two days after you left.”

“Nonsense. The earl would never go anywhere unaccompanied.”

More pounding followed.

“Cease,” Talon roared. He got out of bed and dressed. He was buckling on his sword and scabbard when he opened the solar portal. Cleve, looking uncomfortable, stood in the hallway beside a fussy little man in priestly robes.

“Who are you? And what is all this about a locked door?” asked Talon.

The priest drew himself up to his very inconsiderable height, sniffed, and announced, “I am Father Timoras, personal chaplain and confessor to the Earl of Hawksedge. Who might you be? And why have you invaded the earl’s bedchamber?”

Talon smiled. The fellow could not have appeared more ridiculous had he tried.

“I am Sir Talon Quereste, royal herald, and I’ve taken the only chamber fit for a man of my station. The earl has much to answer for when he answers King Edward’s summons.”

It was almost fun to watch the priestly bundle of ass-clenched nerves blanch when Talon announced his name.

“T—Talon Quereste? Impossible!” Timoras stepped backward.

“Sir Talon Quereste, royal herald, and I am very possible.”

“But you ... the earl ... oh dear. The earl will be most upset when he learns you are here.” The coward continued his retreat toward the stairs.

Talon was getting tired of the priest’s strident whine. “Not half as upset as he will be when he answers the king’s summons and I report to the king how greatly the earl has neglected his duty. Now please tell me why you disturbed my rest.”

The priest swallowed, but finally stood his ground. “I am concerned for the earl. As always when I return from a journey, I went to join him in his chapel. He spends almost all of his time at Hawksedge there, so that was the most likely place for him to be. I was not surprised to find the chapel door locked, but I was startled to receive no response from the earl when I knocked and announced myself.”

Talon folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall just outside the door. “Did it occur to you that the earl might not be here?”

“The thought never entered my head. He would not leave without confessing and receiving absolution. He worried about dying while he traveled and did not wish to rely on a strange priest for the state of his soul.”

Talon frowned. The traveling chair Cleve found had roused Talon’s concern that the earl remained in the area but in hiding. Now Father Timoras’s words made Talon even more certain that the earl remained near Hawksedge Keep, mayhap even within. But how could he go unnoticed for so long? By all reports, the earl was a man who liked his comforts and rarely did for himself what another could do for him. What would inspire a man like that to go without either comfort or servants? Fear of Edward’s wrath? Perhaps, but most men would flee, not stay in a nearly empty keep.

He sighed and straightened. “Let us open the chapel. The earl may have left messages there for you, Timoras.”

Talon indicated they should go, and the priest led the way.

“I warn you, the chapel is locked and the earl has the only key,” said Timoras.

“You serve at his pleasure but do not have a key to your own chapel?”

“When I accepted this post, the earl made very clear that he alone kept all the keys. Often I come to prepare Mass and find him locked in here. He prays for hours on end.”

“From a guilty conscience, no doubt.”

“I think not. He confesses little and is a very pious man.”

“Hah.” Talon gave a grunt of disbelief.

“You saw the abbey as you approached Hawking Sedge?”

Talon nodded and tried to shove open the door.

“The earl endowed the original abbey buildings and gives a large donation yearly. He also gives generously to several monasteries, both here and in France. The earl does much good with his gold.”

“If you say so, Father, but my experience of him is different.” Talon ran his hands over the oaken planks.

“I thought you had not seen the earl in more than two score years.”

“Not since his first wife, my mother, died. Father Timoras, fetch Davy the smith. These hinges are iron. He can dismantle them. Then we can lift the door away.”

Timoras raised his robe, exposing skinny legs, and left at a run.

• • •

When the blacksmith indicated the hinges were freed, Talon lent his aid, and the two men wrestled the door out of the way.

The stench that oozed from the room nearly felled him.

Timoras bent over at the outer corner of the chapel, retching into the rushes.

Cleve held his nose.

“God’s privy,” uttered the hard-nosed blacksmith. “Smells like something died in there.”

Grabbing a torch from a nearby sconce, Talon raised his other arm and covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve.

Dust motes filled the air in the room, glowing golden as they touched the flame. He bent to study the object on the floor near the altar.

The tongue hung out of the flyblown body. Swelling distorted the blackened features. Small bumps blistered the corpse’s face and hands. From the clothing, Talon deduced that the corpse had belonged to a man.

“Sweet Jesu, save us all.”

He heard rustling behind him. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw Timoras a few paces behind, staring at the corpse.

“Do you know this man?”

The good father had covered his face and moaned. “It’s so hideous. How can I tell?”

The smith, being made of sterner stuff, bent over the body. “Look at the signet ring.” He pointed to the body’s left hand where a gold band constricted one of the torn, swollen fingers. The lively sparkle of a green stone mocked the mortality of its wearer. “’Tis likely this is the earl.”

Timoras peered out from behind his hands and looked the body over with shocked interest. “Aye, ’tis the earl’s ring. And the hair. He was vain about his hair that, even at his age, had not yet grayed.”

Talon shot his gaze to the top of the earl’s head where guinea-gold locks spread out above the worm-pocked forehead.

“What do you think killed him?” the smith asked.

“I don’t know,” Talon replied. “He may have died naturally.”

“He don’t look natural to me,” Cleve commented.

“No, he does not.”

“What should we do?” Timoras chimed in.

“Leave him here.”

“No! He must have a proper burial.”

“That he will, Father Timoras, but I wish to seek advice first, to see if we can determine what caused the earl’s death.”