“Motte-and-bailey?” Helena asked.
The viscount drew a circle in the dirt, with another inside it and a dot in the middle. “That is the design of a medieval fortification. First there are earthworks around the perimeter, a hill and a moat or both, then there would have been a wooden palisade encircling the residence itself. Originally, it would have all been of wood, but this one evidently was partly constructed of stone at some point. The foundation walls and a cellar remain reasonably intact.”
“It was the dungeon,” Becky said with enthusiasm. “Where villains were left to die. They say as the ghosts of those who did end their days there haunt the hills around the ruins.” She nodded with authority at this confession.
The viscount almost smiled, his eyes glimmering in that way Helena could only admire. “There have been more than ghosts in residence, unless the specters have developed earthly appetites. We found remnants of a fire and a small collection of discarded foodstuffs.”
Helena feared then for her champion. “Did you rout whoever was there?”
He shrugged, much to her relief. “We saw no one, just signs of occupation.” He frowned again. “I would suggest, Miss Emerson, that no one from your household venture out at night until this situation is resolved, which may not occur before the duke’s return.” He fixed her with a steady look. “Men driven to desperation may be unpredictable, even dangerous.”
“But who are they?” Becky demanded.
The viscount was somber. “There are many men who served valiantly during the war who now find themselves decommissioned and without pay. They may or may not have homes to which they can return after such a long absence, or there may be reasons they choose not to do as much. Not every wife welcomes the return of an injured man, or even one beset by nightmares.”
“How terrible for them!” Helena said. She thought of her champion, denied a spot at his own hearth, turned out into the night, after years of loyal service to the crown, and her heart tore in two.
“It is unjust, in my view, but I can only do so much.” Lord Addersley was rueful. “I have employed as many returning soldiers as possible, as has the duke.”
“I will ask Nicholas if he might have a post for one or two in his stables,” Helena said with vigor.
The viscount nodded approval. “That is a fine sentiment, Miss Emerson, whether your brother has that capacity or not.”
“What can you tell me of the ruins?” she asked. “There must be some tale of its history.”
The viscount considered her query for a moment, then took a seat. He appeared to only perch on the chair, as if pressing matters awaited his attention, and she appreciated that he took the time to answer her question. She had to gather information wherever she could if she was to aid her champion.
“There is a tale, of course, and one of which you may well approve, Miss Emerson,” he said. “For it is a sage of romance, even with a measure of danger.”
“Oh!” she said with delight.
He smiled, very quickly, and she wished he had not sobered so soon. “I am no storyteller, but the gist of the tale is this. There was a Lord Haynesdale whose first son was born when he was in his winter years. There was treachery in his household, for he had become frail and many men of ambition surrounded him. His wife feared for her son, so she marked his skin with his father’s signet ring, heating it in the fire so that its emblem would be burned into his flesh.”
“Oh!” Helena gasped.
“In that way, there would always be indisputable proof of the boy’s identity.”
“How barbaric.”
“But effective, Miss Emerson. For the infant was sent away with a trusty servant to defend him, and that guardian fled to France with the lord’s heir. When that person died some years later, the young boy knew his legacy but could do little to recover it himself. He had the good fortune to be adopted by a knight in search of a squire, a younger son who had joined the Templars and departed upon crusade. And so it was that the boy traveled to Palestine in the care of the knight and trained as a knight himself. By the time the knight returned to France, the young boy had become a man, and when he was granted his spurs, he decided to seek out his own legacy. He returned to Haynesdale with a companion, only to find that all had gone awry in his father’s holding in his absence.”
“I think you do not do yourself justice, sir,” Helena said when he paused for breath. “You tell a fine tale. I am enraptured.”
The viscount’s eyes gleamed. “I believe it is the tale itself that holds you enthralled, Miss Emerson, but I will take such compliments as they come.”
Becky giggled, but Helena was aware only of the viscount’s gaze fixed upon her. “It is true,” she confessed, feeling a little discomfited by his attention. “I do love a romantic tale.”
“Then you will be heartened to know the rest. The knight’s companion was robbed by a pair of urchins in the forest near the keep of Haynesdale and the knight gave chase. He discovered when he caught one of them that she was a maiden, a pretty young woman with flashing eyes and a sharp tongue. He knew, with the conviction that some men possess, that this was the lady who would claim his heart.”
“Oh!” Helena and Becky sighed together.
“The lady, however, was unconvinced. She had little regard for knights, given her experience of those who had laid claim to Haynesdale—who were, by all accounts, a disreputable anduntrustworthy lot. The maiden confided in the knight, telling him that those who held Haynesdale were not the rightful lord or his son, but usurpers, and further, that their demands upon the villagers had been so excessive that those common people had taken to the forests. They waited only for the return of the rightful heir to rise up and fight for justice.”
“This is much like the tale of Robin Hood,” Helena said with approval.
“The heir concocted a scheme with the defiant maiden. He suggested that they should pretend to be wed, and further, disguise themselves as an aristocratic couple on a journey. In this way, they might gain access to the keep and learn the weakness of those who had seized control. He did not tell her that he was the rightful heir himself, for he had kept the secret all his life and could not confess it readily.”
“But she saw the mark on his flesh and knew who he had to be,” Helena guessed.
