Shana Abe (3 page)

T
he riding party that approached the castle was notable for many things: the blazing heraldry of the d’Farouche family, splashes of red and green and white, bold and unmistakable; the number of men in the entourage, forty at least, soldiers with shining swords and proud steeds. They moved as one, an imaginary beast of glittering metal stretching across the landscape, weapons and armor and polished steel—the menace of war, proudly displayed.

But perhaps the most notable thing of all in this party, as they made their way across the gentle hills on the path to Trayleigh Castle, was the object they guarded.

Near the lead and yet surrounded by men rode one woman on a sorrel mare.

Lady Avalon had shunned not only the covered litter which was supposed to carry her, but also the hood of her cloak, which meant that the sun played on the brilliance of her hair, a mix of blonde so fair more than a few of the men had privately compared it to an angel’s halo.

Those that had argued with her about riding in the litter, however, muttered that no angel would be so stubborn. And some had even heard the other rumors, the
whispers traded behind hands, the dangerous word few dared say aloud—especially not when confronted with the uncommon stare of this particular lady.

“Look there, milady.” The lead soldier turned in his saddle and pointed off into the distance, prompting the young woman to follow his direction.

Unfolding around the long corner of a low-slung hill was the sight of Trayleigh Castle, revealed in bits and pieces through the autumn trees surrounding it. Home of Bryce, Baron d’Farouche—her cousin and guardian.

Twelve years ago Lady Avalon d’Farouche had watched that very castle, her family seat, burn as she clung to the top of a birch tree she had climbed after an afternoon of playing alone in the forest.

From her view at the edge of the nearby woods she had seen most of the details of the raid, and contrary to what the Londoners said, she remembered every second of it.

Fat clouds of black smoke erupting from all over the castle.

People everywhere, running, crying, chaos. Some of the people unmoving on the ground, spilling rivers of blood.

Her nursemaid, Ona, running for the tree where she was perched, calling her name in a panic.

A group of men following the woman.

The men pursuing Ona were bloodied like everyone else, but oddly colored with paint and carrying weapons. They were coming to the birch, and there was a menacing intent in their steps. Even though Avalon had scrambled out of the tree to warn Ona of the danger behind her, it had been too late.

Also contrary to what the gossips said, Avalon had not seen her father die. Only her nursemaid, slaughtered beneath the birch beside her.

The painted men were insurgent Picts, men without homes or honor. But to seven-year-old Avalon, they were creatures straight from a nightmare: goblins, streaked blue and red with screaming eyes.

She would have died with Ona in that moment at the base of the birch, her throat slit just as ruthlessly. But Uncle Hanoch had come. Hanoch had been visiting her father, and Hanoch had fought his way to her past the arrows and the axes and the blood, and he had killed the goblins instead. He had saved his son’s future bride and carried her away, away, to the coldest place in all the lands, Scotland.

Yes, the last time Avalon had seen Trayleigh she had been in the arms of Hanoch Kincardine, being dragged away from it while she shrieked at the top of her lungs, while she cried and kicked until they had stuffed a wad of cloth in her mouth that had tasted of smoke and death.

But today was fair and warm, a lifetime away from that moment. It was a day of rolling green hills and long meadows, with no sign of trouble anywhere. Lady Avalon d’Farouche, the young woman, now saw that Trayleigh Castle was much recovered from that terrible day twelve years ago.

Throughout her time away she retained not so much the memory of the splendid castle she was born in but rather the ravaged mess that she had glimpsed from the woods that day. In her mind, Trayleigh lingered in that distressing state, burning, bloodied, and brought to its knees.

The Picts had never been caught. They had plundered and raided and then melted away, back into the wilderness. The best that anyone had ever been able to explain to Avalon was that they were the holdouts of a remote northern clan, resisting the rule of any king, resisting civilized order. Whether it was bad luck or fate that made them pick Trayleigh to show their wrath, no one knew.

So when Avalon shifted in her saddle to take in the first glimpse of her old home, a corner of her still expected to see the same smoke she remembered eating up the skies.

But the castle that greeted her now was not burning. Nor was it quite what she recalled from happier times.

It was smaller, for one thing, not nearly as imposing to the eyes of an adult as it had been to a child. The straight, plain lines of it stretched up to the blue heavens but didn’t seem to reach all the way to the angels, as she used to imagine. The lawns were better kept, the hedges more neatly trimmed. Or perhaps she had simply never noticed these things as a girl.

The old birch tree that had been her shelter during the raid was taller, the branches thicker. It had not, apparently, burned with the castle.

But the air smelled just as she remembered, and Avalon felt a burst of gladness at this, that something was familiar after all this time: the scent of honeysuckle and grass.

Her cousin’s armsman saw her smile, pushed back his visor, and stared at her appreciatively.

“Right lovely,” he said, and she nodded, still looking at the castle.

The watchmen had sighted them and the gate was rising.

Avalon tried to remember if her father had kept the gate closed all the time. She had no idea. Probably not.

Geoffrey d’Farouche, for all his fame as a knight to his king, had been an older man by the time she was born, and ill equipped to raise his toddler daughter after his young wife had died of a fever. Avalon had been handed off to her nurse and nearly forgotten, as far as she recalled. Her memories of her father summoned up merely his eyes, his beard, the timbre of his voice. She could not say if he was kind or harsh, pragmatic or sentimental. There were really just two things she would always remember him for: that he had arranged both her betrothal and the fateful timing that had brought Hanoch Kincardine down from Scotland right before the raid.

The procession took on a solemn air as the group filed through the giant portals and on inside to the cobblestone courtyard. They pulled up in the middle; a serf came over and helped her off her horse, then took the reins and led the steed away.

“Cousin!” came a hearty cry, and Avalon turned to face a large, richly dressed man around what would have been her father’s age, coming toward her with open arms and a wide smile. She took a few steps forward but he was faster, pulling her into his embrace. The heavy onyx studs decorating his tunic dug into her skin.

She allowed this and then pulled back, straightening the train of her gown.

“Never say you rode all this way on your mount?” The man—her cousin Bryce, she assumed—gave her an
incredulous look, opening his gray eyes wide, almost an act. He turned to the armsman.

“And you allowed this, Cadwell?”

“I’m afraid I insisted, my lord,” Avalon broke in quickly. “I do so dislike being confined, you see.”

“Ah.” Bryce looked back to her, and though his smile was still there, slightly puzzled, Avalon had a glimpse of something behind it. Irritation.

“You must not be so formal with me, dear Avalon,” he said, still sounding perfectly jovial. “You may call me Bryce, of course.”

“How kind,” she replied. “You may call me Avalon. But of course, you already do.”

He paused and then laughed, taking it for a joke, which was probably for the best. She had no idea what had come over her. She didn’t want to make an enemy of this man any sooner than she had to.

“Welcome home!” he said. “I do hope we did not inconvenience you too much by sending for you, cousin?”

“Not at all,” Avalon replied, most sincerely.

“Your companion—what was her name?”

“Lady Maribel.” She had only been Avalon’s constant chaperone for the past five years. Too short a time, Avalon supposed, for her guardian to bother to remember her name, even though it was he himself who had instructed his ward live with her.

“Yes, of course. Lady Maribel was not too put out by having you leave her in London, I hope?”

“I do not believe she was at all bothered, my lord.”

Lady Maribel had practically thrown together Avalon’s trunks herself in an effort to help her flee the coming scandal. Maribel’s reputation was much too sterling to
consider besmirching, however remotely compassionate she had been to Avalon over the years.

“It was my dear wife who suggested you come to Trayleigh, but the haste was my idea!” Bryce laughed, spreading his big hands on his belly. “I am not a man of patience, I fear!”

“Your haste was not unwelcome,” Avalon murmured.

The summons had come the very night of the party, delivered with some urgency by a man in her family’s colors. She had not seen the d’Farouche heraldry in so long that it took more than a minute to recognize it, to approach the man, and accept the missive from her guardian.

She was wanted at Trayleigh. She was wanted at home, by order of Lord d’Farouche, etc., etc., and it had taken all her restraint not to dance around in joy in the middle of that crowded room. It didn’t matter why he wanted her, not really. All that mattered was that she would escape London.

How ironic that her rescue came at the hands of this man who had taken over her father’s title after the raid. The gilded young ladies had been correct in at least one thing: Five years ago Bryce had not wanted her. Had not even wanted to see her once she emerged from Scotland, the unexpected survivor of that long-ago raid on her family castle, even though he had never met her. It was a very public humiliation. At the uncomfortable age of fourteen, Avalon had been sent to Lady Maribel’s estate in Gatting and—as far as Avalon knew—had been completely ignored by her family ever since.

But Bryce had finally sent for her. At long, long last she was home.

And now, as she watched this cousin, this stranger who thought to control her fate, Avalon was struck for the first time with a tiny prick of unease. She could not say what it was that caused it—the width of his hands, the florid stain of color on his cheeks. Something was not quite right.…

It was perfectly natural to invite her home, she had told herself. After all, she was still family, her father had been Lord d’Farouche before him. Perhaps her guardian had finally decided it was time to acknowledge her, that she had spent enough time in Gatting and London with Maribel.

Bryce laughed again. “Come and meet my wife. She has been so eager for the day of your arrival! I daresay she has spoken of nothing but your coming for almost this past sennight!”

Waiting in the shadows of the doorway leading to the great hall stood an auburn-haired woman in a gown of scarlet, surrounded by a line of other women, most likely servants. Bryce took Avalon to this group with her arm firmly held in his, almost causing her to trip over her skirts to keep up with him.

He pulled her up beside him and presented her to his wife as if she were a prized trophy.

“Look who is here, Claudia. Our fair cousin Avalon.”

The woman named Claudia stayed in the shadows. She leaned her head back, as if trying to focus on something too close, and then looked away over Avalon’s shoulder.

“Welcome to Trayleigh Castle.” Her voice was husky and blurred. “Or welcome back, rather.”

“Thank you,” Avalon replied, almost at a loss, fighting
the crush of disappointment at the woman’s words. No one could possibly call Claudia eager, and perhaps to cover for her lack of enthusiasm Bryce became even louder.

“You must be fatigued, dear cousin. Come inside. Rest. How happy you must be to be home again.”

Avalon walked with him past the long line of women, all of them but Claudia watching her closely.

The great hall had also changed from her girlhood view, seeming smaller again, with different tapestries hanging, different tables. Even the light seemed changed, sharper and harder. There was a strangeness in the air, a sense of
wrongness
that Avalon could not define. The tiny prick of unease she felt before grew stronger, harder to ignore.

She felt the chimera in her roll over in its sleep, disturbed.

Bryce waved his hand and a servant appeared, a woman little older than Avalon.

“You will be taken to your chambers, where you will rest until tonight. We look forward to your company then.”

Avalon looked up at her cousin—fair-haired and imposing in his stone-studded tunic—and noted the understated command in his words. The
wrongness
around them uncurled further—long, grasping tendrils.

“Good day to you, cousin Bryce,” she said, curtsying.

His smile was brilliant.

“Good day, Avalon.”

The rooms they assigned her were not the same as those she had had as a girl. It seemed to her these rooms
used to be the quarters of some noblewoman, a gentle lady who had always had a kind word for her, who was it? Ah, Lady Luedella. Avalon wondered what had happened to her, then blocked the thought from her mind. If the Picts had found her, Avalon didn’t want to know.

The rooms were fine. The pallet was clean and covered with ample furs. The rushes on the floor were fresh and fragrant; there was a small fire going in the fireplace. She even had a rug, a fanciful Persian thing that had so many intertwining lines and flowers in it that it gave her a headache to look at it.

Everything was perfectly satisfactory—even better than that, practically luxurious, a clear reflection of the wealth of the estate. So why was Avalon unable to rid herself of the feeling of entrapment?

She wandered over to the window and peered out, searching for that old birch. The farthest-reaching branches were in her sights, but that was all. The birch faced the other side of the castle, really. She was glad that there was green on what little of the tree she could see.