Wulfyddia (The Tattersall Trilogy Book 1) (6 page)

The
widow who ran the boarding house seemed unflatteringly reluctant to rent him a
room. Rathbone was insulted, as he considered himself a highly desirable tenant.
Surely she could have done worse than a promising young surgeon.

He was
too distracted, too lost in his own mind, to see the slime that he tracked onto
her carpets, to catch the hysterical note in his voice or see the faintly
fevered flush of his brow in her drawing room mirror. His coat was covered in
grime, his face bruised, his hands blackened and his fingernails as jagged as
his nerves. Indeed, it was lucky that he was a physician, or she might have
turned him out onto the street then and there. But he was a doctor, and so the
aged landlady reflected for a moment, reclining on her settee with her dog on
her lap. The little creature was the love of her life, and it was usually quite
sweet-tempered, so she was surprised when the animal took one look at the young
man and snarled at him most definitively.

Rathbone
watched the mongrel with slowly rising panic. He had never minded dogs before,
but this animal was positively vicious, and every flash of its teeth brought
him back to his eternity in that cell, to his brush with a creature so evil, so
unholy…

“Very
well.” His new landlady’s voice filtered through the visions of chaos and
violence that clouded his mind, reminding him that he was in her living room,
not back in that cell.

“You
won’t regret it,” Rathbone assured her, attempting to replicate what had once
been one of his warmest smiles. Now it only made the dog’s hackles rise.

As the
landlady took the dog into her arms and pulled herself to her feet, Rathbone
spared a grimace in the mongrel’s direction.

Watch
yourself, my friend.

Despite
the little hellhound, Rathbone was quite satisfied with his new apartments. The
house was attractive, and he had a garret room to himself, which suited him.
The boarding house was on the outskirts of town, and he could see both the walls
of the keep and the ancient oaks of the forest from the windows of his room. It
was an ideal location. He wasn’t too close to the castle, no, not too close,
but close enough. He was close enough to settle the matter, close enough to
strike. Far enough that perhaps he might be able to sleep at night without that
hot, rank breath at his neck.

Rathbone
lit a lantern, and then shuttered both of his windows, closing out the daylight
and the clamor of the street below. He would require peace and quiet for his
work. All he needed was a little peace and quiet and the beast would be his.

***

Light
visited the dungeon like an unwelcome stranger as the door creaked open,
admitting Daphne with her torch and sending the rats squeaking and shaking into
the shadows. The subterranean chamber was carved of roughly cut black stone,
and there was a stench in the air, as though something had been rotting quietly
down there for centuries. A mix of boot prints and scuffmarks disturbed the
thick coating of dust on the floor.

Spencer
shifted uncomfortably in the doorway. “Why do we have to hide it here?” He
asked again. The royal sisters were a mystery to him. Why they had come back
for the book in the first place was puzzling enough, but their insistence that
he join them in their search for a suitable hiding place for it was
particularly mystifying.

“Because,
this is the last place anyone will look for it.” Daphne answered.

“And
because Daphne actually believes that insane doctor and wants to see the beast
for herself.” Lorna put in confrontationally. She looked as uncomfortable as
Spencer felt. Her arms were crossed tightly in front of her chest and she
lingered near the doorway as though she might make a run for it at any minute.

“It
doesn’t seem the best idea. To hide a stolen book in a prison, I mean,” Spencer
qualified, because Daphne seemed to take offense. “I still think you should
give it back to your grandmother.”

“Are you
mad?” Daphne rounded on him. “That’s the last thing we should do. I don’t know
about the provinces where you were raised, but in the castle we don’t treat
theft lightly.”

“But you
said you found it. You said you had no idea it was stolen.”

“We
didn’t.”

“So you
shouldn’t be punished, then, should you?”

“You
don’t know our grandmother.”

“Is it
because of where you found it?” Spencer guessed. “Maybe you went somewhere you
weren’t supposed to?”

“We’re
not telling you where we found it.” Lorna cut in immediately. She seemed even
more nervous than before.

 “Why
not?” Spencer persisted.

“It’s somewhere
secret.” Daphne said, “one of our favorite hiding places. We can’t tell you,
otherwise it won’t be a secret anymore and then we won’t be able to use it.”

“Well,
it sounds like someone else has already found your hiding spot. Whoever stole
the book must have left it there for a reason.”

“Can’t
we put it somewhere and leave?” Lorna snapped. “Someone could come down here at
any minute.”

“I don’t
think so. They reopened the wing just for Rathbone,” Daphne said. “Grandmamma
wanted him isolated.”

Spencer
couldn’t imagine what the man must have gone through, alone all night
suffocating in this horrible place. The sisters had filled him in on the tale
of the unfortunate Rathbone on their way down to the dungeons, and after seeing
the place where the man had passed the night, he wasn’t the least bit surprised
that the physician had been babbling by the next morning. It was horrifyingly
claustrophobic down here, just cell after cell, and then, at the very back of
the chamber, a single wooden door. Spencer stared at it and felt something cold
travel down his spine. He realized suddenly that it was fear. “What’s beyond
that door?”

Daphne
and Lorna shared a furtive glance, and Daphne giggled slightly, a little
hysterically. Lorna only looked upset. “That’s where the Beast came from— or so
the doctor said.” Lorna was beginning to regret telling her sister Rathbone’s
story. If she hadn’t, it would never have occurred to Daphne to set this little
melodrama in the recently reopened cellblock. “It’s just a story though. Stop
snickering Daphne. We’re supposed to be hiding the book.” She found this latest
debacle of Daphne’s particularly stupid. Daphne glared at Lorna as if she could
read her sister’s mind, her pretty face screwed into a hateful expression.

“Well,
where do we hide it?” Spencer stared at the dungeon around them. “I know this
sounded like a good idea at first, but I don’t know. I mean, it’s a prison.
It’s not exactly going to have a lot of hiding places, is it? I mean the whole
point of a prison is that everyone stays exactly where they’re supposed to be,
in plain view. Nothing is supposed to be hidden in a prison.”

“Don’t
be so dull,” Daphne ordered, coughing slightly over the dust in the air. “This
place is hundreds of years old. You can’t tell me that there isn’t one good
hiding spot in here.”

“All I
see are cells, and we can’t hide anything in those. As that poor doctor found
out, they’re back in use.”

“What
about behind that door?” Daphne suggested. Her tone was deliberately casual.
She might as well have dropped ice down his spine. His undeniable mistrust of
her, combined with his vehement dislike of the dungeon, made him more than
reluctant to venture beyond the door.

“Daphne,”
Lorna sighed loudly. “Why must you always
push
?”

“It’s in
my nature,” Daphne snipped. “How about it, Spencer? Should we seek a hiding
place back there?”

She had
a way of discerning exactly what frightened him, and then forcing him into
close quarters with his fear. It was disconcerting how she seemed to enjoy
witnessing his turmoil. “Why don’t you go find a nice hiding spot and leave
Spencer and me alone?” Lorna piped up.

But
Daphne ignored her sister, and Spencer couldn’t help himself; he wanted to know
where the book would be hidden. “The door’s probably locked,” he said instead.

Daphne
feigned surprise. “If it was locked how could the beast come through?”

“There
is no beast, and you should stop repeating the ranting of a madman.”  Lorna
argued.

“And you
should stop being so prissy. Check the door, Spencer.”

Wondering
how she had conned him into any of this in the first place, Spencer obediently
crossed to the door. Daphne was on his heels when he reached out and felt the
knob turn under his hand. As the door opened there was a great sighing sound, a
gust of rank wind rushed over them and Spencer could not help the uneasiness
that took root in his chest as they took a few steps inside the dark chamber
that opened up before them.

“Ladies
first,” he said, stepping back for Lorna and Daphne. Lorna quickly jumped back
as well, so Daphne sighed wearily and took the first few steps inside.

The
light of her torch revealed a small, windowless chamber that looked as if it
had remained undisturbed for many years. “This is probably where the prison
guards used to stay,” Lorna surmised, looking from the long abandoned cots to
the cold hearth and the rickety, dusty old table. The stools were all toppled
over, as were a few old crates and barrels.

“Well,
it seems the beast is not at home.” Spencer observed drily. “Hopefully we’ll
find a hiding place before it gets back.”

They
spread out in the little chamber, but Spencer had trouble concentrating on the
task at hand. The air smelled like decay, and he was chilled to the bone. “Why
not here?” Lorna suggested. She gestured to an old wine barrel, now long since
empty and smelling faintly of old hay. It was dry, though, and hopefully with
the lid on the barrel, the rats wouldn’t be able to get to the book.

“I like
it.” Daphne seemed pleased that her idea had proved fruitful. “It should be
undisturbed here.” She handed Spencer the torch and then stowed the book at the
bottom of the barrel. They stood there staring down at it for some time, before
Daphne reached back into her mass of curls and withdrew something thin and
sharp.

“What is that?”

“Hair pin,” Daphne held it up in front of his
face. “We’re taking a blood oath.”

“Not another one,” Lorna sighed.

“What for?” Spencer asked.

Daphne took a deep breath and closed her
eyes. “I, Daphne Lucretius, Princess of the Realm, do hereby swear to keep this
book a secret and let it remain here undisturbed for as long as I live. Now you
say it,” she said, opening one eye to glare at them. Spencer and Lorna
dutifully repeated their lines with equally low levels of enthusiasm.

Daphne pricked her own finger without
hesitation, and then lunged for her sister’s hand before Lorna could sit on it.
When his turn came, Spencer offered his hand quickly before she could accuse
him of cowardice. The pin flashed once in the torchlight, then was lost to the
gloom as Daphne reached for him. She gripped his hand at the wrist, and he
braced himself, but somehow the pin point on the pad of his finger still came
as a shock. He stifled a hiss at the bite of the metal, and then they were
grasping hands over the candle flame, and there was a strange air of gravity.
The smiles were wiped from the sisters’ faces, and their eyes were wide and
almost fearful.

“It must
remain here forever,” Daphne whispered, leaning forward so that her face was
lit by the darting flames of the torch. She certainly played to an audience,
that one. Across from Daphne, Lorna seemed to be tolerating her sister’s
behavior with the kind of long-suffering acceptance characteristic of younger
siblings. After enough time had passed in suitable solemnity, Daphne allowed
them to rise from their knees. “Our secret forever,” Daphne murmured in hushed
tones as they backed their way out of the dungeon. Spencer rolled his eyes at
her theatrics and closed the doors behind them, hoping that this really was the
end of the matter. He longed for a quiet night of uninterrupted sleep.

***

“Spencer?”
His mother’s voice greeted him immediately upon his return to the Haligorn.

“Hello.”
Spencer couldn’t quite keep his weariness out of his voice. He felt
unexpectedly exhausted after his encounter with Daphne and Lorna, brief as it
had been. Perhaps it was the atmosphere down in the dungeons that had drained
his energy and left him feeling tired and out of sorts.

 “Are
you alright?” Spencer’s mother held a hand to his head thoughtfully, as though
expecting to find him feverish. Abigail Tattersall was a tall and wiry woman,
steady of temperament and stronger than she appeared at first glance. Her hair
was the same blonde as Spencer’s, but her eyes were a warm brown, and she had
the smile of a much younger woman. Now, however, she was frowning. They had lost
Spencer’s father to a fever just eighteen months previously, and neither of
them took illness lightly anymore.

He
shrugged away her hand. “I’m fine. I’m not sick.”

His
mother nodded, though she looked unconvinced. “I’ll be back down to fix our
supper in just a minute. I have to look in on her ladyship first.”

“Take
your time,” Spencer told her. He wasn’t opposed to having a few minutes alone
with his thoughts.

Mrs.
Tattersall frowned at his terse response. “I’ll just be a minute.”

As she
vanished upstairs Spencer wandered into the kitchen and stoked the fire
contemplatively. The cat leapt off the table and darted between his ankles,
pausing to rub her head affectionately against his shin. Then she too was gone,
a nimble shadow in the gathering darkness. Spencer sat at the hearth and stared
out of their kitchen window, one of precious few windows in the Haligorn.

He was
not comfortable around the princesses. His new connection to them made him
anxious and he was afraid that it might bleed into all aspects of his new life at
the castle. His existence in the Haligorn had been quiet so far, and he hoped
it would remain that way. Some might have considered Spencer and Abigail’s
lives dull, but there was a quiet rhythm to their days which Spencer found
comforting. He and his mother rose early, and Mrs. Tattersall immediately
withdrew to the topmost chamber of the Haligorn to wake Justine. While his
mother was upstairs, Spencer tended to the morning chores, stoking the fire and
feeding the cat. Eventually his mother would come downstairs, make breakfast
and give Spencer his tasks for the day.