Читать книгу The Bride Of Windermere - Margo Maguire - Страница 11

Chapter Four

Wolf’s powers of speech returned when he was forced to introduce Kathryn to Philip. She greeted the earl, tipping her head almost regally. She then took Philip’s arm when it was offered, leaving Wolfram and Nicholas to follow them to the dais. Several guests were milling about, waiting for the earl in order to be seated and begin the meal.

Kit noticed that though Wolf wasn’t exactly frowning at her, his expression left something to be desired. He appeared completely astonished to see that she was what she said.

A woman.

Fully grown.

The word “Sprout” popped into her mind, and her chin rose a notch.

“You grace my hall most delightfully, my lady,” Philip said as he seated her on his right. Wolf and his German cousin sat some distance from the earl and Kathryn, but they were still able to hear most of their conversation. Wolf thought Lady Kathryn appeared somewhat small and vulnerable with her bruised eye and the healing gash on her lip. His muscles clenched reflexively, knowing that she was exactly the kind of victim Philip relished.

“It has been many months since Windermere has been blessed with the charms of one so lovely,” Wolf heard Philip say to Kathryn.

“Our condolences on the loss of your lady,” one of the barons said.

“Oh, my,” Kit’s eyebrows came together in concern for the earl. “Your wife has recently...died?”

“Yes, Clarisse died last November, poor girl,” Philip muttered.

The name “Clarisse” shot through her like an arrow. What was it Maggie had said about her?

Wolf didn’t detect a bit of emotion from his cousin when he spoke of his dead wife. In fact, Philip seemed altogether too enthralled by Lady Kathryn, and Wolf didn’t care much for it. Any normal man would have been able to produce at least some outward sign of grief for the young wife who’d been dead a mere six months. Instead, Philip hung on Kathryn’s every word, and hadn’t yet let go of her hand.

“How dreadful for you, my lord,” Kathryn said, recovering herself. “Was it sudden?”

The trenchers were finally brought to table as well as trays of meat and fowl. Everyone started to eat, forcing Philip to stop touching Lady Kathryn. Wolf noticed the look of concern in Kathryn’s eyes over the bereavement of the earl. He knew she couldn’t possibly understand Philip’s true character on first meeting, but Wolf found her sympathy for Philip irritating, regardless.

“No,” Philip answered Kit. “My wife had been ill for some months... A stomach malady.” He waved the meaty rib of beef he was holding as if to dismiss the topic. Kit thought the earl’s attitude too callous. She knew little of the world beyond Somerton, but she felt certain that some expression of sorrow would have been appropriate. There was no doubt in her mind that the Earl of Windermere was a cold man, and his strangeness caused a slight furrowing of her brow. She could not know that her expression would be interpreted as sympathetic rather than simply puzzled.

Philip paid almost exclusive attention to Lady Kathryn and that fact was remarked upon by many of the guests at the tables nearby. Lady Kathryn’s bruised eye was duly noted, though it was said she’d suffered some mishap prior to setting out from her home in Northumberland. No one knew quite why she was traveling to London or exactly what her relationship was with King Henry, though speculation was rife that the king had made her his ward and she was under his protection. They also said he would likely choose a husband for her.

Wolf said nothing to quell any of the rumors regarding Kathryn, since he himself had no idea why she’d been summoned to court. Besides, Wolf decided the rumors and theories would be to her benefit. He suspected the less anyone knew for certain about her—especially Philip—the better.

Kit was exhausted when Philip finally walked her to her chambers. She wanted nothing more than for the clinging, lecherous nobleman to release her arm and let her enter her room. He had dogged her all evening and now, his face was close to hers and his breath reeked of old ale.

Because she was a guest in his home and since she’d promised Bridget to behave, Kit did not trounce on his foot or jab her knee into his groin when he slid a wayward arm around her waist and flattened his sweaty hand across her buttock. “Such a sweet little morsel...” he muttered, even though Kit tried to move away.

“My lord, release me. Now.”

“You please me, Kathryn,” Philip drawled. “Young, tempting. What ruse must I use to lure you—”

Kit slapped his hand away and was considering doing worse harm when Sir Gerhart suddenly appeared in the corridor, carrying one candle and staggering slightly, singing a bawdy little tune under his breath. He came toward them, lost his balance and knocked into the earl’s shoulder. Kit was surprised by his awkwardness, for though he was a large man, she’d noticed that he always moved with agility and purpose.

“So sorry, m’lord,” Gerhart slurred. “Wunnerful wine, marveloush party.”

“Back off, ungainly oaf!”

“Please, my lord,” Kit stepped between the two men before the earl was able to draw his dagger. It wouldn’t do to have the two fighting in the gallery outside her room. Nearly in a panic and hardly able to think what she should do next to appease the earl’s unreasonable temper, Kit spoke in her best conciliatory tone. “My escort has...has...merely overindulged in your good wine...and...your hospitality. Allow me to help him to his chambers... er... so he does not further embarrass our party.”

She took the candle from Gerhart and pulled at his arm, moving him away from the earl. “Come along, sir knight,” she said, then turned to Philip. “Good night, my lord.” With that, she put her arm around Gerhart’s waist to support his drunken frame and led him down the hall. A quick glance behind her verified, to her immense relief, that Philip was not following. “Pompous ass...” she muttered.

Wolf was really too large for her to support much longer. His chamber would have to be nearby or there would be no choice but to let him crash to the floor right there in the gallery. “Which is the door to your room, Gerhart?”

“This one... No, p’rhaps...down here a bit...” He was leaning too heavily on her. They were both going to fall. “You smell like roses again, Sprout,” he said, weaving slightly. Kit was surprised he’d noticed. She always bathed with

rose-scented soap, but thought it was too subtle to be noticed by anyone but herself.

“Here. This is it.” He staggered into a door which swung into the room under his weight. By some miracle, neither one of them fell. Kit now found herself with Gerhart’s arm around her rather than her arm around his waist where she distinctly remembered having placed it. In his drunken state, he had somehow succeeded in keeping her from falling. He was holding her quite closely now, and Kit’s breath quickened. His head moved down, bringing his lips precariously close to hers, nearly touching, and Kit had no control over her body’s traitorous response to him. She knew it was insane, but she yearned for the touch of his lips again, wanted to feel—

A drop of hot wax from the candle hit her hand, and Kit jumped. She came to her senses and pulled away from him at once.

“Can you manage now, or should I call for someone to help?” she asked, somewhat breathlessly.

“Why would I need help?” he asked, all traces of drunken speech remarkably absent.

“Why would...? You’re not drunk at all, are you?” she asked, seeing the amusement in his eyes and realizing that he had been toying with her.

“Of course not, Sprout. I never drink too much,” he said, puzzled by his own behavior. He had never feigned drunkenness before, nor any other condition. Wolf told himself that he’d felt compelled to follow when Philip had taken Kit from the hall only because it was his sworn duty to protect her. And after witnessing his cousin’s lecherous looks at supper, he didn’t trust that the lady would be safe with him alone in the dark gallery.

“Why, you... you... deceitful lout!” Kit cried. “Roses indeed!” She looked for something to throw at him, but seeing nothing readily at hand, Kit whirled about and tore out of his chamber, leaving him in darkness.

When she reached her room, Kit closed the door more gently than she would have liked, in deference to Bridget, who was sleeping. Her blood was pounding in her ears. Kit wasn’t sure if her upset was from anger, annoyance or fear of what might have happened if she’d let Wolf kiss her. Would he have recognized her as the woman at the lake from one kiss?

Standing there in the gloom, her distress simmered, but her worried lips gave way to a slow smile as she thought of Wolf feigning inebriation. The act had been contrived entirely for her benefit. If not for Wolfs interference in the corridor, Kit would either have had to submit to the earl or do something equally embarrassing. Neither option was acceptable, and Wolf had saved her from having to make the choice. She grinned. His method of rescue had been perfect Perhaps he wasn’t totally lacking a sense of humor.

Kit pulled off her concealing veil and wondered if he had merely played the diplomat, or had the sight of the earl pawing at her given him the impetus to intervene? The thought intrigued her as she sat down on the bed next to Bridget and felt her fevered forehead. No one had ever seen fit to rescue her before. Not even Rupert.

The fire in the grate had all but died as Kit undressed by candlelight and slipped into a thin white gown. Though the chamber was deep in shadows, Kit knew there was a small bed in the far corner. She intended to spend the night there so as not to disturb Bridget’s sleep. As she lifted the candle and turned, a strange sound came to her ears from the depths of the shadows. Kit stood still to listen for it again. Finally, she heard a voice speaking in a harsh, laughing whisper. It was an eerie sound.

“The rooster’s found another pretty little hen to decorate his roost!” Kit raised the candle a bit in order to better illuminate the room. A deeper shadow moved in front of the fire, and Kit knew the speaker was there. Too frightened to approach the apparition, she set down the candle and went back to the bed where Bridget lay. Her knife was concealed under the extra pillow. She didn’t know what the intruder wanted, but Kit planned to protect herself and Bridget.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“Methinks the wolf this time will thwart our bird and serve him up for supper.”

Bridget moaned a little in her sleep, the sound startling Kit nearly out of her skin.

“You speak nonsense! Come into the light and let me see you.” The last thing she really wanted was to see whatever demon was speaking, but Kit bolstered her courage and demanded a confrontation.

The little bent-over figure moved slowly away from the fire and approached the chest where Kit had set the candle. When finally it stopped near the light, it turned. Kit saw it was nothing but an old woman, bent by a hump on her back, and cloaked in some coarse, dark cloth.

“Ahh! ’Twill be good to see him brought low!” the woman clapped her hands in glee.

“Who are you?” Kit whispered again.

“I?” She looked incredulously at Kit, unable to believe that anyone might not know her. “I am the Countess of Windermere.” She threw her head back and laughed silently. It was a bizarre laugh causing chills to move down Kit’s back as she watched the wretched old thing going through the motions of laughter with no sound.

“I...I thought the Countess...died last spring... You are not, you could not be her...her ghost? Could you?”

More infernal laughter. Kit trembled, certain she was poor Clarisse’s ghost.

“Agatha.”

“What?” Kit whispered, completely confused now.

“I! Me! I am Agatha. Wife of Clarence the Usurper.”

“Who is Clarence?” Kit asked, now totally confused.

“Clarence was the father of the peacock who now struts about Windermere Castle. Philip, he is called.”

The riddles were giving Kit a headache, and she was beginning to suspect that this Agatha was no more an apparition than Bridget.

“What do you want?”

“Take care. He needs a new hen to breed him some chicks. The last could give him no brood.”

“I don’t understand you! Can you not speak plainly?”

“Your wolf will find all he needs if he has the time and knows where to look.”

“My wolf—” She realized with a shock that the woman meant Gerhart, who was never called Wolf. “Who do you mean? What are you saying?”

“Silver eyes. Black thatch. Rightful earl.” Her words were said as though they were part of a song, an oftrepeated song.

“Do you mean Sir Gerhart?”

“Ahh, is that what he is called? Born of Bartholomew and Margrethe. Finally come for his birthright.” The strange silent laugh came over her again.

Finally, the old woman turned and hobbled back into the shadows. And then she was gone.

Kit stood still for a moment, afraid to move. It had been the oddest experience of her life, and she had no idea what to make of it. Had the woman just vanished into thin air? Where else could she have gone? The door hadn’t opened, and she couldn’t possibly have left through the window. Kit finally gathered her courage and went over to light a candelabra. With more light, she verified that the old woman was truly gone.

It was a long time before Kit fell asleep. Awakening early to the sounds of Bridget coughing and wheezing, she got up to administer more of the medicine to her old companion and was unable to go back to sleep. The room was chilly, so she added wood to the fire and then wandered about, puzzling over the events of the previous night.

Unfortunately, not much was clear about the old crow’s visit the night before. She’d said she was Agatha, that much Kit understood. The old earl was Clarence, and Agatha claimed she had been his countess. If that were true, why did the old lady bobble around in the night, appearing and disappearing out of thin air, and babbling riddles like a madwoman? What self-respecting earl would allow his mother to go about in coarse rags, pestering the castle guests?

Kit opened the shutters to see that it was just barely dawn. It seemed a pleasant spring day, the rain having let up sometime during the night. It was still overcast, but the haziness only made the tree trunks seem blacker and the leaves more green. Even the grasses in the distance were more vibrant than Kit remembered. It was a beautiful land with neatly tilled rows on the hills and a good-sized town in the distance.

She poured water into the basin and began washing, when she saw a tiny gray mouse skitter across the room and disappear under a huge tapestry which hung from ceiling to floor. Kit hadn’t paid much attention to it before, for the cloth was darkened and obscured with age, making the details unintelligible.

Wondering about the mouse hole, and thinking to block it up, Kit went over and pulled the tapestry aside enough to search for the crack. Instead, she found more than a mere crack. The tapestry covered a false stone wall, which concealed a door hanging on hidden hinges. A small round hole, just big enough for two fingers was carved into the stone door. Kit put her fingers in, and the catch turned noiselessly. The door swung in heavily.

It was too dark to see into the dank, musty passageway, so Kit lit the candelabra, threw a blanket around her shoulders and went through. She found that the passage was small, only large enough for a narrow spiral staircase, which she began to ascend. Just when Kit was certain the steps would go on forever, the stairs finally ended at a stone door identical to the one in her own chambers. She turned the catch and found herself standing behind a large tapestry. Peeking round it, careful to remain silent, Kit perused what was obviously the bedchamber of Lady Agatha.

The old woman was snoring loudly in her bed which was as heavily draped as the bed in Kit’s own chamber where Bridget now slept. The room was dark as well, with Kit’s candelabra casting long darting shadows along the floor and walls. As she moved into the room, Kit began to reconsider the prudence of breaching the chamber of a sleeping madwoman.

Before she was able to withdraw, however, Agatha’s dark eyes opened and focused on Kit. “Well, well.”

“Yes, well, I...I wondered how you got into my room...” Kit said awkwardly. She felt like an intruder yet the old woman had intruded into Kit’s room only the night before.

“I waited for you.”

“For me?”

Agatha sat up in the bed and crouched her head down into her shoulders. She smiled, displaying more pink gum line than teeth. “For you. Of course.”

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and slid down to the floor. Nodding her head, she hobbled over to the window. Drawing the shutters aside, Agatha looked down into the courtyard three stories below and satisfied herself that no one was about. While Kit stood watching, Lady Agatha went across the room to a little wooden footstool and carried it back to the window. She turned and winked at Kit, then stepped up, reached out of the window and struggled to pull a loose chunk of granite free of the outside wall.

“I can’t do it. You’ll have to get it out.”

“What?”

“The stone!” she cried impatiently. “The stone! What he needs to—ach! Here, reach thus.” She got Kit to stand on the footstool, and now the old woman was making her reach outside the window. “Pull and tug gently. Your fingers will find the prize.”

Agatha’s antics were beginning to annoy Kit, and she wished she had never come up to the old lady’s room. To humor the old woman, Kit played along, although she couldn’t help but wonder where this game would lead. Then, as she was about to pull her arm back inside, her hand happened upon the loose brick.

Carefully, Kit pulled the stone away and turned around to hand the heavy piece to Agatha.

“That’s it! That’s it! The rooster will broil for lunch!”

Kit reached back outside and put her fingers into the gap. There, she felt a canvas cloth holding something solid, heavy and metal, about the size of a large coin. She pulled it out to see that it was a large, ornate ring: a seal on which was engraved a peacock, its feathers fully extended.

“Whose signet is this?”

“’Tis the seal of Bartholomew Colston, once lost, once stolen, only to be made anew and different, too.”

“Your riddles baffle me, good woman. Can you not speak plainer?”

“Show it only to the wolf and no other, else harm will come to you.”

Exasperation finally overcame her efforts at good will. “Well, I think I’ll just leave this little treasure here,” Kit said as she returned the seal to the niche in the wall. Why the woman was hiding it from Philip was no concern of hers, and she didn’t want to get involved in their dispute.

“No!” Agatha hissed. “You must take it! Conceal it and show it to no one but the wolf.”

“Please, Lady Agatha,” Kit said even as she reluctantly retrieved the seal again. “I have no wish to enter into your personal affairs with your son. I—”

“Do not call that vulture my son! He is not of my blood!”

“Well, whoever he is, perhaps you ought to give him back his seal, if that’s what this is.” Kit tried to hand it to the woman, but she closed Kit’s fingers around it.

“Why do you refuse to understand?” Agatha demanded in frustration. “Take it! Hide it! The wolf will know what to do with it!”

Kit sighed. She took the iron seal, picked up the candelabra and wrapped herself again in the blanket. “All right, Lady Agatha,” Kit said reluctantly. “I’ll do it.” Returning to the hidden door, Kit turned back to Lady Agatha, who appeared satisfied.