“What are you talking about?” Cecily demanded.
Joan held up a finger and then scrambled to her feet, disappearing from the rim of the pit.
“Joan?” Cecily called out, and then she, too, struggled to stand. Her head swam and she held her arms away from her sides momentarily, fighting for equilibrium.
When her swaying had stilled, she gripped her right arm once more and then turned in a slow circle, surveying her captivity. Yes, the pit walls were at least ten feet tall. There was no mortar between the stones, no ridges that Cecily could see upon which her slippers might find purchase to climb out. She would try though, as soon as she had the opportunity.
Joan reappeared at the edge of the hole, a roll of parchments tied with a string in one fist. She worked at the knot while she talked.
“You were right not to trust him,” Joan said, unrolling the pages and flipping down the corners, scanning them. “He is quite the scoundrel. You would have never stood for his behavior, although it didn’t matter to me in the least.”
“How could you say it didn’t matter to you, and then you take your jealous rage out on me by trying to murder me?”
Joan looked down at Cecily over the pages for a moment, her eyebrows raised, and then back to the single sheet now in her hand. She cleared her throat.
“Let’s see ... la, la, la ... unfortunate ... yes, here we are. ‘I know you say that Oliver is neither responsible nor settled enough to take a bride such as my sister, and that his behaviors will surely scandalize her, but I can assure you that Cecily is made of sterner stuff than most realize. Since you will not allow him to marry Joan Barleg, and since the idea of a betrothal between the two children was discussed on more than one occasion years ago, I must insist that we would be remiss in not exploring the option. Oliver is your heir, and Cecily is mine, for all intents and purposes. If something should happen to me, Fallstowe would be protected by their union.’”
Cecily stood in the wet filth of the pit, staring up at Joan Barleg, her lips slack.
Sybilla. Sybilla had been pressing August for a betrothal between her and Oliver?
Joan looked down at her. “Hmm, interesting. You truly had no idea.”
Cecily shook her head.
“It doesn’t matter, really.” She gestured with the curled pages. “August adamantly refused the idea until he and your sister had come to other arrangements.”
“What other arrangements?”
Joan smiled slyly and then tossed the pages into the pit, where they turned and wheeled like seabirds before fluttering to the ground. Cecily hurried about, scooping up the parchments quickly before the damp mass under her feet could contaminate them.
“Is this what my sister was looking for?” Cecily demanded. “These letters that you stole from August?”
“Sybilla was looking for something of August’s, true. I was looking for the same thing. She never found it, and neither did I, although these letters did much to encourage my tenacity. And I don’t think of what I did as stealing, so much as receiving payment. I’m still not quite certain what led Sybilla to suspect me. Certainly no one else did—poor, simple, stupid Joan Barleg, who is so slow as to not even have proper command of language. August would have rather taken his own life than allow Sybilla to discover that he’d used me like a whore when she broke it off with him and banned him from her bed.”
“I’m certain he didn’t force you,” Cecily said bitterly. Her world had been turned upside down in the past hour.
Joan giggled girlishly and winked at Cecily. “Well, that’s true.”
Cecily’s mind worked. “Were you hoping that he would then choose you? That August would marry you?”
Joan shook her head. “Of course not. I simply wanted him indebted to me. Especially after I discovered what he and your sister had planned. I wanted Oliver.
I wanted to be Oliver’s wife
. I was owed that, by both of them. They both betrayed me. Sybilla betrayed me.”
“You were going to blackmail him,” Cecily guessed. “Instead, you simply killed him, didn’t you? You killed August.”
“No, I didn’t. I’ve already told you that, and it is the truth. August was thrown from his horse. Some birds flew up out of their nest and caused his horse to start. It was very clear to me that he had broken his neck or his back or some other rather important part of his body. He couldn’t really move.”
“You were with him,” Cecily realized.
“Yes. He didn’t know that I followed him. But I didn’t kill him.”
Cecily tried to swallow. “You just left him to die.”
Joan nodded. “As I will do with you.”
“Why, Joan?” Cecily asked. “Why?”
“He was going to your sister when the accident happened; he was to let her have her way, offering up Oliver. It was to be a surprise.” Joan smiled then in the gloom, her words increasing Cecily’s chill. “Oliver was supposed to ride with his brother that day—August was going to tell him of his and Sybilla’s plans to see the two of you wed. But tardy Oliver—he never met August that day to hear the joyous news. When I saw August thrown, I went to him right away. Once the extent of his injuries was clear, I realized then that the accident was the perfect opportunity for me. With August dead and completely out of my way, Oliver would turn to me in grief, honoring my faithfulness by making me his wife at last. I would never know the fear of poverty again, the shame of my poor family.”
“But he wasn’t going to marry you, any matter!” Cecily argued.
“You don’t know that!” Joan screamed, losing grasp of her calm. Her fists were clenched by her hips. “Now it will never happen and it is
still
your fault!” She took several deep breaths, seemed to gain control of herself. “So, if I can never have what I have worked so tirelessly for, he will never have
you
—the only person I have ever seen him worship outside his equally stupid and pigheaded brother.”
“Joan,” Cecily tried, “help me out of here, and let us both go on to Hallowshire together. I sent Oliver away; obviously things ... aren’t going to work out between us.”
Joan shook her head. “Bravo, Saint Cecily, but no. Sorry. I actually do know Oliver quite well, and if he should ever learn that you are carrying his child, he would kidnap you away from the abbey and have you wed to him before you could blink. He is very determined with getting his way. I cannot breathe on this earth knowing that the pair of you have each other, Bellemont,
and
Fallstowe.”
“What are you talking about, Joan?” Cecily demanded. “Fallstowe is Sybilla’s.”
Joan stared at her thoughtfully. “I wanted to be like you, at one time. I wanted to be sweet and meek and charitable. Perhaps Oliver would have loved me like he loved you. But I was so wrong. You are no different from me after all. At least he never took me drunk, on the ground.” She began to turn away.
“Wait!” Cecily shouted. “Where are you going?”
Joan paused and turned back slowly, a small smile on her face. “I already told you—I’m going to Hallowshire. I have heard they will grant anyone asylum, even criminals. And no one can reach them, not even the king. Ever.”
“Don’t leave me here, Joan,” Cecily begged.
“Thank you for the horses,” Joan said with a smile, and then she turned away completely and disappeared from the rim of the pit.
“Joan!” Cecily screamed, her breath clouding in the gray cold.
“Joan!”
In a moment, Cecily heard the muffled hoofbeats of the horses fading into the morning.
And then she heard nothing at all.
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Chapter 27
The next pair of hours seemed like a very swift dream for Cecily. A maid had appeared in her room only moments after Sybilla left, bearing a beautiful rose gown that Cecily had never seen Sybilla wear. There was an ornate crispinette and veil, and matching slippers, as well. Oliver excused himself reluctantly as the maid assisted Cecily in a hurried toilette, brushing and scenting her hair before twisting it into a long rope of individual spirals. The bandages on her upper arm barely fit into the slim sleeve of the ivory underdress, but the pressure felt good to Cecily, and the wide sleeves of the gown proper hid any bulkiness.
Oliver returned from his own preparations just in time to take her elbow and lead her from her small chamber. He had wet his hair and discarded his tunic, stained with her blood. He would marry her in his billowing white shirt, and slim black hose. His eyes were merry now, his grin quick and infectious, and the pair of them actually hid their smiles of excitement behind their hands as they made their way from the keep and across the bailey to the chapel.
Cecily tried not to notice the scores of soldiers grimly and hurriedly crisscrossing the dirt beneath red torchlight, and Oliver did not mention them at all.
They stepped into the dark entry of the chapel, the smell of incense like a welcoming perfume to Cecily, and she breathed deep as her eyes welled again.
Father Perry beamed through his pale skin and tired-looking eyes. Cecily knelt at Sybilla’s side, flashing Graves a smile, and the three remained silent as Father Perry ushered Oliver away. In moments, Oliver was kneeling at her side. He nudged her with an elbow and then gestured over his shoulder. Cecily rose and entered into that dark closet, ready to purge her soul of her doubts and fears before committing to Oliver before God.
Cecily could not help but notice that neither her sister nor Fallstowe’s dignified steward partook of the penitential sacrament.
Then the four of them, Cecily, Oliver, Sybilla, and Graves, were standing before Father Perry and the altar.
Cecily and Oliver knelt, they prayed, they repeated their vows, promising their love and fidelity to each other and their maker. They shared the Host, and then a kiss.
And just like that, Saint Cecily became Lady Bellecote.
Father Perry embraced her first, with a kiss on her temple and a special whispered blessing in her ear.
Old Graves bowed over her hand and brushed his dry lips across her skin. “Has there ever been a more beautiful bride?” he asked rhetorically.
To which Oliver answered, “No, you old crab, there has not.” Then he and Graves shared a clasping of hands.
Sybilla turned Cecily into her own arms and embraced her tightly. “Congratulations, Cee,” she said. “I know you will be very happy.”
“Thank you, Sybilla. For everything,” she emphasized, and then pulled away. “I know we must be off first thing in the morn, but—”
“No,” Sybilla interjected, and her eyes went to Oliver, too, as he came to stand at Cecily’s side, his arm going around her waist possessively. “No. You must go now.”
“Now?” Cecily squeaked.
“I’m not certain Cecily should be astride so soon after her fall and now that she is carrying our child,” Oliver said.
“I’ve provided a conveyance and team,” Sybilla said matter-of-factly. “Cecily, your personal things are already inside, as well as some food and drink for the journey. I’m sorry, Oliver, but your mount will have to be left behind. I can spare no man to drive you.”
“Sybilla, aren’t you being a little rash?” Oliver queried. “Surely we can wait until the morning, when my own mount is rested. I can tether him to—”
“You must go now,” Sybilla insisted. “Please.”
Cecily looked up to Oliver, prepared to fight if he said they must.
Her husband stared at her sister. “All right, Sybilla,” he said quietly.
And then they were out of the chapel, where the carriage Sybilla had promised was waiting just outside the doors.
Sybilla embraced her again before Oliver helped her inside and closed the half door. Cecily placed her palms on the door and leaned out, the heavy drapes brushing her face.
“You will send word to Bellemont, won’t you?” she begged. “I shan’t be able to stand the thought of you here alone, not knowing what is happening.”
“I will,” Sybilla promised. “And I hope that I will see you again soon.”
Cecily frowned as Oliver embraced her sister. “Do send word. If there is anything I can do, I will do it. I owe you so much, Sybilla.”
“Just take care of them,” Sybilla said, and pulled away. “Take care of them both, and drive as fast as you dare.”
Oliver nodded with a grim look and then he leaned in the window to press a kiss on Cecily’s mouth. “Give a rap if the ride is too rough.”
The carriage rocked as Oliver took his seat above, and then Cecily swayed as the conveyance lurched forward. She leaned further out the window, waving to Sybilla as the carriage rattled into the barbican.
Sybilla raised her hand, standing with Graves in the midst of a storm of soldiers.
And then her sister was gone from Cecily’s sight, the carriage wheels clattering over the drawbridge that had barely had time to lower before Oliver drove over it at full speed, away from Fallstowe. The drawbridge began rising again immediately.
The scores of torches on the battlements high above gave the illusion that Fallstowe was afire.
Sybilla let her hand drop to her side as the carriage carrying Cecily vanished into the black throat of the barbican.
She had fulfilled her promise. Her sisters were safely away, and happy.
Her general approached her, and Sybilla wasted no more time dwelling on the melancholy of her singularness.
“How far?” she asked of the soldier.
“An hour, at least, milady.”
“How many?”
“It was difficult to estimate in the dark and from such a distance,” the general said. “More than three hundred, certainly. Perhaps even twice that.”
“Ready the men for a siege,” Sybilla instructed. “Put out the torches once everyone is accounted for at their stations. Let them think they’re catching us unawares.”
“Should we open fire on them when they draw near enough?” the general asked.
“No. Wait,” Sybilla said. “Let us fully know their intentions. Should they make a push in the end, or should you see the great war machines, send for me, and we shall plan our next move.”
The general bowed, and then was off quickly about his grim duties.
Ever at her side, Graves asked, “What shall I do, Madam?”
Sybilla gave a great sigh. Who knew if she would be alive in two hours?
“You shall accompany me to the great hall and pour us both a very large drink, Graves.”