Knight's Lady, page 20
part #1 of Tenebrae Series
Someone else. In the darkness the man inside her changed to someone else. Not Alex. Taller. Thinner. Shoving her now in a perfunctory way, as if trying to reach his climax in a hurry.
“No!” Lindsay woke herself and the dream disappeared. The man left in an instant, as if he’d never been there. She sat up in the closet bed and cried again, “No!”
Another cry, of anguish, came from outside the bed. In the chamber. A frisson of alarm skittered up Lindsay’s spine, and she cracked the door of her bed open to see. Reubair was sitting up in his bed, naked and panting. By the dim light of the embers in his hearth, she could discern a dark look of frustration as he stared into the dimness of his room. Sweat glistened on his bare shoulders. Thin shoulders, long, thin, aristocratic arms like the ones that had held her just a moment ago.
He looked over at the closet, glaring accusation, and she let the door fall shut silently. Then she lay back down and rolled away from that door, wondering what would have been the outcome if she had let the dream continue.
Fourteen
In the middle of the night something woke Trefor. Something not in the room. Though the fire in the hearth was nothing more than dim, red coals, he could tell there wasn’t anyone near. But he sensed a presence. Like a scent floating in air, nebulous and drifting. It was the thing he’d tried to follow earlier, and it was stronger now. Healthier, somehow, though he didn’t see how that made any sense. Not much today had made sense, so this seemed just another part of the weirdness.
“Who is there?” he whispered. But he got no answer. He sat up in bed, and the chill air raised bumps on his arms. It was then he realized the presence was not an entity, but a trace that led somewhere. Like a string, or a trail of smoke, it led under the door and out to the antechamber. Trefor leaned back against his pillow and closed his eyes, left his body, and followed the trail. Under the door, where his soul squeezed through without any effort, and into the chamber outside. Down the spiral stairs and past the keep entry. Down and down, and farther down into the dank rooms below ground.
In that place torches were the only light, those few and far between. In a room scattered with metal tools and strange implements, a raggedy human man sat, asleep on a chair leaned against the wall on two legs. His head rested on his chest, and the snoring noise he made through his bulbous nose sounded like choking. A set of enormous iron keys hung from his belt, but Trefor had no need of those. He turned to follow the spirit trail beneath a doorway, then through that chamber into the next.
There, two shadows lay on the floor in darkness. They were men, either asleep or dead; it was difficult to tell which. Prisoners, without a doubt. Trefor, his body still in the chamber many floors above, shifted concentration like a man shifting an armload of packages to reach for his door key and produced a small glow of light in order to see. It was weak, but enough to see dark outlines.
There wasn’t much here. Two men, alive and taking shallow breaths in their sleep, huddled on the stone floor of a prison cell empty except for themselves and a slop pot in the corner. He wondered what they had to do with him that he’d been contacted.
Then he took a closer look. One was a priest, his tonsure growing ragged and his face covered in a beard of a couple of weeks, but clearly a priest. And on even closer inspection Trefor realized with a shock it was the guy from Eilean Aonarach, Father Patrick.
His heart leapt and rattled so badly Trefor nearly lost his grip on his wandering soul. Back in his room he gasped and struggled for the tie that kept himself from floating away, out of control, forever. For a couple of minutes he clung to himself and slowly regained control. Once calmed, he approached the figures to look into the face of the other. But he knew what he would find, for he recognized the “smoke” now. It was Alex. The gang was all here, it seemed. Aglow with all the power he could muster, clinging fast to his essence, Trefor examined the face of his father, asleep on the floor.
Alex was barely recognizable. Gaunt, like an old man. A sense of irony tinged Trefor’s thoughts, for Alex had once pointed out in anger that he would never be “old” relative to Trefor. That as he aged, Trefor would also. But the lines on Alex’s face betrayed the effects of his injuries, and given that he was imprisoned by Reubair, Trefor wondered how Alex was still alive at all. He should have died at Eilean Aonarach, or been murdered on arrival here.
The priest stirred and looked up, too quickly for Trefor to escape without being seen. Patrick’s eyes went wide. “Sir Trefor.”
“Shh.”
“How...?”
“Say nothing.”
“How are you here? What... are you?”
“Nothing. I’m nothing.”
“A dream?”
Oh, good. An explanation Patrick would accept. “Yes, I’m a dream. God has sent me to you in a dream.”
The priest closed his eyes and murmured a prayer of thanks.
Trefor asked, “Do you know where you are?”
Patrick looked up at him again. “The castle of An Reubair.”
“How did you get here?”
“We found his company in the Borderlands, but they overwhelmed us, killed the others, and brought us here.”
“Did you find Lindsay?”
Now Patrick hesitated, but only for a second, for he was, after all, talking to a messenger from God. He replied, “Yes. She’s here.”
“She knows her husband is here?”
“Aye. She brings us food and medicine for his fever.”
This made no sense. Why didn’t she just get Reubair to cut Alex loose if she cared so much? Or let him die if she didn’t? More to the point, why was Reubair allowing him to live at all?
But there was no time to grill the priest, for Trefor could feel the strain of his stupid faerie tricks telling on him. He was going to lose his soul in a moment if he didn’t get out of there fast. Without another word, he let go of the light and plunged the room into darkness again, then retreated out and up the stairs to his own chamber at speed like a snapped rubber band.
“Ow.” He should have known better than to hurry like that. There, restored to his body, he lay in the dim glow of his own hearth, panting and spent, and puzzled over what he’d just seen. Things were getting weirder by the minute.
***
Alex awoke and shivered in the cold. The fever was gone, but he was too weak to move. Almost too weak to breathe. Still confused about a lot of things. For a moment he had trouble remembering where he was, for it seemed he was in a bedchamber with a glowing hearth. But the cold told him that was impossible. The hard, bare stones beneath him were not the strewn reeds and heat-holding wood he’d imagined. And, for a moment, he thought he’d heard Trefor’s voice.
“Patrick,” he murmured.
“Here, my lord.” There was a sound of shifting, and Alex sensed Patrick sitting up near him. His voice was such a soft whisper as to be nearly inaudible even in the quiet of the night.
“You’re here. It’s you.” Alex reached out, and Patrick’s hand found his. Alex raised his head in an effort to see, but there was no penetrating the utter darkness of the cell and he sagged back onto the floor, exhausted. He hadn’t seen the sun in what seemed forever. Days? Weeks? Years? Not years, his beard wasn’t long enough. But it had been a long time. “Patrick, was Lindsay here?” He had dim, disjointed memories of Lindsay. She was somewhere near here, he thought. Wherever “here” was. Reubair. Reubair.
“Earlier. The countess was here this morning.”
Alex sighed and felt a tiny bit of warmth. He could live if there was a promise of seeing Lindsay again. But Patrick continued.
“Your cousin also came to me in a dream.”
Cousin? What cousin? Then he remembered who Patrick must mean. “Trefor was here?”
“Only in spirit.”
Spirit. That could mean anything, given Patrick’s religious vocation and Trefor’s talents. Alex asked the real question. “He knows we’re here?”
“Possibly. At least, God knows we’re here. Whether I saw Trefor, or God with the face of him, I cannot say.”
Alex was too sick to care whether Patrick saw God, Trefor, or Trefor playing God, or God screwing with Patrick’s head, or what. He said, “You saw something?”
“Aye. Your cousin, and with a light about him that filled the chamber like a ghostly fire. Like a ghost himself, he was.”
“Trefor is dead?” There was a charge of alarm and Alex tried to lift his head again to look at Patrick’s face, which he wouldn’t have been able to see even if he’d succeeded.
Patrick hesitated before answering, then said, “I hope not, my lord. In any case, he asked whether the countess knew you were here.”
“And you told him?”
“Aye.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“He wasn’t here very long. Surely, had he been, you would have awakened on your own.”
Alex grunted and closed his eyes in an attempt to go back to sleep. But he was healing, and there was only so much sleep to be had now. He lay awake in the cell, staring into the darkness, wondering why God would send Trefor to ask such an unimportant question. A question to which God would surely have known the answer. It had to have been Trefor himself, and so wherever he was, he probably knew where they were.
A shiver took him and shook his bones as he realized it was anybody’s guess whether or not that was a good thing.
***
Breakfast was once again in Reubair’s bedchamber that morning, and Lindsay was surprised when King Dagda joined Reubair and herself. Without that shifty-eyed, red- haired mistress, and for that Lindsay was glad. She didn’t know what Morag was up to, but she had never trusted Trefor’s girlfriend. Nobody at Eilean Aonarach did, and now the wisdom of that was apparent.
In any case, Dagda sat with Reubair while Lindsay sipped her mead and picked at the bread and meat on her plate. The two were having a private conversation, away from courtiers and servants, and neither thought of her as having a brain. One of the few advantages of being a woman in this period was being privy to sensitive information; the main drawback being that there was precious little one could accomplish with even the most useful bits. This morning, however, the men held her rapt, for the name of Nemed was invoked. That elf was balking at paying tribute to the Danann.
Dagda sat, nearly lounging, with one elbow leaning on the arm of his chair. “Nemed is an elf,” he said, as if that explained all.
“He leads a Danann army.”
That was news to Lindsay. Last she’d heard, Nemed was alone in the world, devastated by the loss of the last of his people. She’d never seen, nor heard of, any army. Unless it was Reubair’s own army he meant. In which case, he had been deceiving Dagda regarding his own loyalty by not revealing until now the extent of his loyalty to Nemed. Lindsay found this incredibly interesting and listened closely to hear more.
But Dagda seemed to be aware of Nemed’s army. Or, if he was surprised, he hid it well. He replied, “If he leads Danann knights, they are traitors. Every last one of them.”
Reubair was now on notice that his loyalty was in doubt. He defended himself. “Nemed is pledged to you. All who follow him also follow you.”
“As far as that goes. But,” Dagda gestured his frustration that he had to keep saying this, “he is an elf. One cannot deny he is not one of us, and we have to assume his true loyalty is only to himself.”
“He’s the last of his kind.”
“He’s naught to lose.”
“Then it would behoove us to give him something he wants to keep and protect, such as the land. Something we control.”
“Or take everything, and leave him only his life.”
Reubair’s lips pressed together as he considered his reply to a comment he regarded distasteful. “Why stop there? Why not simply murder him?” It was a challenge, for Dagda to put up or shut up. Reubair was plainly disgusted. Lindsay wasn’t sure exactly why, or what Reubair wanted from Dagda.
“I would that Nemed were done away with. But I am no murderer.”
“And he is wily and powerful.”
“That, too. Even so, if there is a way to have him off Danann land...” He let the sentence hang and eyed Reubair for his reaction.
There was none. Not a flicker of eye, nor twitch of muscle. Reubair continued gazing at the cup in his hand as if he’d not heard. A long silence spun out, then he said, “I have rights to nearly half that land.”
“And you provide half his men-at-arms.” There it was. Dagda knew.
“All of whom are loyal to you, as I am.” Reubair seemed desperate to convince Dagda of his loyalty. He protested nearly too much.
“Are you? Truly?” Skepticism darkened Dagda’s voice. “I wonder. How can you be loyal to your Danann king and an elf at once? Were he to attempt a coup, it would be with your men. He could wage war, using resources from my own lands. Men of my own race.”
“Why do you think he intends it?”
“He’s an elf.” Dagda’s tone of frustration became irritation. “As you said, he is wily and powerful.” He leaned forward to emphasize his point. “And he’s an elf.”
Reubair eyed Dagda, clearly offended but unwilling to argue that particular point. He said, “Are you saying I should rise against my sworn liege because he might rise against you?”
“But there is no question of it. Sooner or later, the creature will chafe at subjugation by the Danann and he will attempt to conquer us.”
“With other Danann?”
“Of course. To make himself king of our people. To lord over us. To say ‘Elves are better than Danann.’”
To Lindsay it seemed Dagda’s position was nothing more than fearmongering, and he was more interested in saving his own skin than in the interests of the faeries.
Since there was no elf population to displace the Danann living on his land, under Nemed they would live. But Dagda himself was vulnerable to assassination. By the look in Reubair’s eye just then, Lindsay thought he might be the one to wield the knife. “I have sworn my soul,” he said. Plainly he was disgusted with the faerie king.
“Pah!” Dagda made a disparaging gesture. “Soul! Speak to me not of your religion!”
Reubair flushed with anger but held his tongue.
Dagda continued, “Your fellows pledge themselves as they please. Don’t tell me how bound you are by your meaningless oath.”
Lindsay glanced toward the door, wondering if she should make her exit before the fight would begin. Reubair was sure to kill the king now. He was a thief and a murderer, but nobody dared challenge his belief in God.
Instead, he took a deep breath and said, “There are some who break their oaths, and will surely burn for it. I prefer not to burn, and cannot bring myself to rise against Nemed.”
Dagda started to speak, but Reubair overrode him. “However, I also swear to you — on my soul — that if Nemed were to break his pledge to you I would consider him to have violated the trust on which my oath is based. Being no longer obligated to him, I would then command my men in defense of my king.” He paused and looked Dagda directly in the eye for emphasis. “And the people of my blood.” That seemed to mollify Dagda, who sat back in his chair as Reubair continued, “No man can accuse me of reneging on my obligations. None can ever say I have strayed from the path of my Lord, Jesus.”
Lindsay blinked at that, and coughed to cover a bark of a guffaw. But Reubair probably was referring only to the issue of oaths, for he went on without pause.
“I swear to you, on my life and the lives of my future children, that my loyalty is to my king, and you can rely on my support if ever Nemed violates his pledge to you.”
Lindsay could see Dagda was still not impressed with any oath made on a Christian soul to the Judeo-Christian God, but she figured this was the best he could have expected from Reubair. Or anyone, really, for trust had to be based on faith in someone or something. If Dagda knew Reubair, he knew the oath would hold, whether Reubair was Christian, pagan, or Jedi Knight.
Dagda nodded, accepting the pledge, and the conversation segued to less weighty matters.
Lindsay looked from one to the other, and tucked away in memory what she’d just witnessed.
***
So... Alex was being held prisoner by Reubair. Trefor focused on the implications of that at breakfast as he watched Morag eat alone. Alex was surely the thing keeping Lindsay at Castle Finias, but whether that meant she wanted to save his life or have him murdered was hard to guess.
If she wanted him dead, then why not simply request it? Reubair would surely be happy to oblige. And also, why nurse him back to health? Was the intent to ransom him? To whom? Robert? Last Trefor had heard, Reubair was dependent on the king’s goodwill for his operations in the Borderlands. More than likely Reubair wouldn’t want Robert to even know the earl had been imprisoned. All the more reason to do away with him swiftly and quietly. Could Lindsay be making a pretense? Trefor set that idea aside immediately. No, he couldn’t think of a reason for her to pretend to Reubair that she loved her husband. She must have been sincere in protecting Alex, and Trefor found comfort in that thought as he picked at his breakfast, not tasting any of the food.
But then, what was she doing there? Why had Reubair brought her there to begin with if not to imprison and ransom her? Why was she free to visit her husband if she wasn’t there willingly? If Reubair wanted her at his side, which he plainly did since she was at his side, then why did he not just have Alex killed? All avenues of thought kept leading back to that question: Why was Alex alive?
But then, Trefor considered that since Lindsay seemed to be acting as the lady of the household, she may be fulfilling all the functions of wife and for every intent was one. There may have been no pressing need to kill Alex. Trefor knew from battle experience how hard it was to kill and figured it would be more difficult to murder in cold blood. Better to hold in a cell instead and hope for him to die of his wound. It could be Alex was alive out of mere inertia.
