“But what of Eduard?” she whispered, as if she could scarce find the courage to voice her request.
Gray felt his lips curl almost against his will into a mocking grin. “Your wishes shall be respected on that account as well, my lady. For this night, at least.” He yanked the door open, adding, “But on the morrow I host a tournament in honor of our wedding. Your brother will not fare so comfortably then, I assure you.”
Gray steeled his heart to the simultaneous rush of relief and renewed anxiety he saw in her eyes. She seemed about to speak more to him, but then she simply looked to the floor, her hands clasped again before her.
“Good night, lady,” he finally murmured, taking one long, last look at his bride. Then, before he could change his mind, he slipped out the door and disappeared into the cool, welcome embrace of the night.
Faegerliegh Keep, Somerset
Heldred’s breath rasped in his throat. The old man leaned his hands on his knees, trying to force his heart to slow, so that he could continue his work. As he rested, he glanced around, concerned more about the possibility of seeing one of Montford’s soldiers than of crossing any evil spirits that might be lurking in this shadowy crypt.
Only two generations of Montfords rested here; the others were back in Normandy, whence the current, corrupt brood sprang. As a man of science, he had no reason to fear the reappearance of their disembodied souls. They were all surely damned to eternal hell for the lives they’d led.
A sudden, fierce pain gripped Heldred’s innards, making him wince and sink to the earthen floor of the vault. Damn his weakness! He muttered and gasped, even as he reached for the bag of herbs around his neck. Taking a pinch of wild cherry bark from his pouch, he ground it between his teeth and swallowed.
There. The pain subsided; the prickly feeling on his neck faded, and he breathed easier. At least for the moment. But he had to hurry, he knew. The scent of morning already seeped into the tomb, urging him on and reminding him that the sun would bring new guards to replace the night watch. If Montford’s men caught him lurking in the crypt, they would capture him and present him into Lord Montford’s bloody hands.
Yet he couldn’t leave now. He had to know.
Heldred’s gaze darted around the dim confines of the earthen vault, searching for the spot. He’d recognize it, once he saw it, of that he was sure. Scuffling his rag-covered feet over the stone and dirt floor, Heldred approached a tomb. It looked like the place. No carved stone figure reposed on its top, so it was either a new burial or the resting-place of a less significant member of the Montford family.
With a groan, Heldred pushed at the lid of the stone case until it grated off-center a forearm’s width. He lifted his torch with a trembling hand, his lips pressed tight as he prepared to see if the horror of his suspicions was true.
A clammy vapor rose from the tomb, bathing his face in chill. He held his breath against the fetid stench of decay he expected to follow soon after. But when he peered into the recesses of the stone case, he saw rotted cloth, topped by the grinning head of a skeleton. A few wisps of hair clung to patches of scalp left upon the unfortunate’s head, but it was obvious that this man had been dead for a long time.
With effort, Heldred pulled the lid shut again and shuffled to another tomb, not far off. This time he paused and scrutinized the area, squinting and trying to visualize the place as he’d seen it in the light, on the day of the burial, when all of the villagers had been allowed to pay their respects.
Carefully he swung the torch along the edge of the stone, searching for some sign. Curse his sight for failing him now! Why couldn’t he see more? Recognize some clue? The torch sputtered and popped, throwing a flurry of sparks that bounced off the edge of the platform to flicker out on the dusty floor. And then he found it.
With a gasp, he knelt as quickly as his old knees would allow him, bringing the torch closer to the base of the bier that supported the stone coffin. Scuff marks marred the dirt round the sepulcher, the result of scores of mourners who’d filed past the resting-place of their beloved lady on her burial day.
This was it. Her tomb. Setting the torch aside, Heldred put his back into his labor, pushing the heavy lid from its mooring with a strength belying his years. The stone grated and scraped, and he felt blood ooze, stinging, from his knuckles, as he dragged them across the harsh surface in his haste to see what lay inside.
Torchlight flickered from the rough-hewn ceiling as he raised his arm and leaned over to view the corpse. The stench hit him immediately, and he sucked in his breath, holding it and feeling his head reel. His eyes strained, and tears rushed behind his lids, blurring the horrible sight before him. With a growl, he threw down the torch, shoved the tomb closed, and slid down the side of it to crumple in a heap on the floor.
Grateful sobs bubbled from his chest, and he caught the faint, metallic odor of dirt and blood on his hands as he leaned his forehead into them. When the emotions passed, leaving him empty and dry, Heldred dragged his sleeve across his eyes. A smile wrinkled his wet cheeks. He’d been right, by God. She was alive. That bastard Eduard had done evil in the most terrible way. He’d killed his own sister, and she, not their beloved mistress, lay here in the tomb. The poor Elise hadn’t even been granted her own identity in death.
A rusty laugh escaped Heldred’s throat, mixing with a joy and hope he hadn’t felt since that awful day. But it wouldn’t be awful in his memory any more. Never again.
Because his lady was alive, by the saints. And he, Heldred the weaver, was going to find her.
Chapter 3
Catherine shifted in sleep, catching herself with an aching jolt an instant before she would have toppled off the edge of Grayson de Camville’s enormous bed. Stiffening as she came to full awareness, she pushed herself up on one shoulder and squinted at her surroundings. ’Twas nearly dawn, by the lead-gray light that seeped in the shutters.
She’d survived her wedding night.
Twisting to look behind herself, she saw that she’d moved little from where she’d finally curled in exhaustion hours after Gray had left her last night. The blood-stained linen still lay across the bed where she’d thrown it before she slept, fearful lest someone enter the chamber while it was on the floor and realize the ruse for what it was.
Now she looked at the sheet with distaste. Though she was thankful for the reprieve it had granted her, the soiled linen represented the lie that had become her life in an undeniable, tangible way.
Forcing herself to stand, Catherine limped to the wash basin. Her limbs protested against the ache that had worsened over the course of the night. How long had she slept? ’Twas difficult to tell. Still, she needed to perform her toilette before a maidservant arrived who might see her bruises and talk of them to the others at the castle.
She’d just slipped on a mulberry linen kirtle when the door creaked open. Catherine glimpsed an older woman’s face a moment before it disappeared again behind the portal.
“Pardon, milady,” her voice came gruff from the hall. “’Tis Mariah. I’ve been sent to attend to you as lady’s maid, if you’ll allow it.”
“Aye. Come in.” Catherine adjusted the fitted wrist of her smock so that it peeked from beneath the kirtle’s long, pointed sleeve. “I’ve dressed already, but I’d welcome help with my crispinette.”
