“My father and his friend were found dead on the road only a half mile from Darlyrede House the next morning. Thomas Annesley had robbed them both of their horses and their possessions—the pin, Blake’s prayer book, what little coin they carried—and then he killed them before escaping.”
Padraig felt his stomach in his throat. Yet another crime of which Padraig’s father was accused that Lucan had concealed the details of. He was shaking on the inside now. It made sense why Kettering had asked about the prayer book in the corridor when Cletus died, and Padraig couldn’t help but remember all the times Tommy had prayed over their meals, prayed over their flock, or prayed over Padraig’s own mother asshe lay dying.
As if Kettering had read his thoughts, he asked quietly, “Do you have the book,Master Boyd?”
“I already told you—nay,” Padraig said in a choked voice. “Da never had one that I saw in all the years of my life. Iswear to you.”
“It’s simply not possible that Thomas Annesley killed those men on the Darlyrede Road,” Lucan interjected. “By the time he’d gained Scotland, he was nearly dead himself. He’d been shot and nearly bled to death.” Lucan paused a moment, letting the idea of that settle about the room like the first smoke of a new fire, waiting for the scent and the sting of it to be realized, accepted.
Padraig understood right away. “How could an unarmed man so gravely injured overpower, rob, and then kill two grown men outfitted for travel?”
Lucan nodded. “Precisely.”
“Then who did?” Kettering demanded.
Lucan paused for a long, long moment, and then simply shook his head. “I cannot say for certain. I’m sorry.”
Kettering walked toward Padraig’s cot and sat down at the foot of it with a sigh. The priest stared at his hands, bloodied from his work on Lucan’s foot. He lifted the towel lying across his lap and wiped at his stained fingers absently.
“Itwasa hat pin,” Kettering said. “At least, that’s what it became. It had originally been a shard of a battle shield from Agincourt, where my father had been a soldier when he was little more than a boy himself.” The priest paused, shook his head. “The English never should have won. The fighting was so fierce, they were so outnumbered. My father had been wounded and thrown to the field—he said he could see nothing for the hooves and mud and bodies. He knew he was going to die. He crawled beneath the long battle shield of a fallen French soldier, and he prayed without ceasing through the night, begging Godto spare him.”
Kettering looked up toward the end of the room where the wall met the ceiling, but Padraig didn’t think he was seeing anything in the chamber. “When the fighting was over and he finally crawled from beneath that shield, it was in pieces. Splintered, my father said, by the sheer number of arrows that had pierced it, the horses that had trampled him. He took a splinter of the shield and vowed there, on that field, that he would devote the rest of his life to serving God, in thanks for sparing him.
“Once he had returned home, he began his studies for the priesthood while he healed, and he carved the splinter into the pin. He was never without it. When I was a boy he often recounted his night on the battlefield—likened it to the garden of Gethsemane, he said, only God had seen fit to pass the cup from him. His faith was so great—it’s why I became a priest myself. I never dreamed after surviving such horrors that he would be shot down in the middle of a road inhis own land.”
“Shot?” Padraig repeated.
Kettering nodded. “He and Blake each received a bolt in the chest, to that I can personally attest. When news reached me of his and his companion’s death…I was devastated. I came to Darlyrede and I buried my own father. That is how I know so intimately how he died. I buried Cordelia Hargrave as well—Thomas Annesley’s betrothed. Lord Hargrave saw to it afterward that my mother and siblings were cared for, and he offered me charge of the chapel. And here Ihave remained.”
The chamber was silent, filled with Kettering’s grief, Padraig’s confusion, and the enigmatic thoughts of Lucan Montague. Padraig could not think of anything to say—Kettering had been his enemy before, Lucan his friend. Had theirroles reversed?
The priest sighed and stood up. “I’ll change the water now.” He went around the far side of the other cot and wiped Lucan’s foot with the towel at his waist before picking up the basin. He carried it out of the door leadingto the bailey.
“I know you’re angry, Padraig,” Lucan said quickly in a low voice. “But if I had explained all the connections between the accusations against your father, you wouldn’t have trusted me to help you.”
“You’re right,I wouldna’ve.”
“And I can’t blame you. I made a pledge to bring Thomas Annesley to justice, aye. For the crimes he committed. And especially for the murder of my parents.”
Lucan glanced toward the doorway through where Kettering was returning and finished in a rushed whisper. “But perhaps now you understand why I no longer think he is guilty of any of it. In fact Iknow he’s not.”
“The difference between us, Lucan,” Padraig murmured, “is that I’ve always known it.”
* * * *
Iris shuffled the pages back into her portfolio just as she heard the scratching on her window. She admitted Satin, somehow mustering the energy for a smile.
“I don’t have anything for you yet,” she warned when he went straight for the hidden niche in the wall. She gently scooped the cat out of the way and then placed her portfolio inside before reattaching the panel, and then set about at last changing the gown stained with Padraig Boyd’s blood.
She held the material in her hands and stared at the dark splotches, brown against the crimson fabric. Stroking her thumbs against the stiff stains at once returned her to the sober mood that Satin’s arrival had briefly dispelled. All the secrets, all the lies, all the years of darkness within these walls—what would be the outcome? The final verdict? Had Padraig Boyd come all this way, risked his life and his freedom for naught?
And what would their future be, inthe aftermath?
Iris placed the gown on the back of the chair, then bent down to scratch Satin’s chin and scoop him up. “Back out you go,” she said, rising and walking to the window. “I’m going to go check on Lucan. I’ll bring youun petitgouterlater.”
“Meow.”
“Well, you can’t go with me, I’m sorry.” She unlatched the window and placed the cat on the deep stone ledge, encouraging him through the openingwhen he balked.
