The Valcourt Heiress (Medieval Song 7)

“No, I am not like them.” Garron rarely thought about his father anymore, a hard man who was wont to strike out with his fists when suddenly rages would come upon him. Garron remembered now that he’d once struck Miggins when he disliked a gown she’d sewn for Garron’s mother. His fist had jerked her off her feet and slammed her into a stone wall. It was one of the few times Garron could remember his mother crying.

But surely Arthur hadn’t been a bad man or a wastrel master, had he? But his rages, Garron thought, he’d forgotten about Arthur’s rages, unleashed when one didn’t expect them, then gone in a flash, but only after spilled blood, broken bones, and curses. Arthur was taller than Garron had been at sixteen, bigger, and hard with muscle, his voice loud enough to reach fishing boats at sea.

Miggins whispered, “I prayed the good Lord would save us and He did, though He waited until there nearly wasn’t anything left to save.” She crossed herself and looked around at the heavy, silent darkness.

Tupper whispered, as if afraid someone would leap out and shove a knife in his throat, “There are a few others here, my lord. Most are gone or dead. Will everyone return? Mayhap now that ye are here they will. Those who still live, that is.”

Garron couldn’t take it in. He

asked again, “This Retribution, Tupper, you said it was a plague of a human sort.”

“Worse than a sickness plague,” Miggins whispered, “much worse.”

He wanted to yell at them to spit it out, but held to his patience. They were old, they were starving, and why was that? “If it wasn’t a sickness plague, then tell me why everyone is dead or gone. Where are Wareham’s soldiers? What was this Retribution?”

6

Tupper’s voice was so thin with fear it nearly disappeared in the chill night air. “What happened here, ye ask, my lord? I’ll tell ye and pray my liver doesn’t fall out of my belly for saying his cursed name. The Black Demon came, my lord, and he shouted to all of us that he would unleash the Retribution on Wareham if we didn’t turn over Lord Arthur to him. But how could we? Lord Arthur was already dead and buried, along with the prized sword he’d won off that Flemish knight. We shouted the truth down to him. But he didn’t believe us. Then he claimed he would spare us if we told him where yer brother’s silver coins were hidden, but none knew what he was talking about. None of us ever heard that Lord Arthur had a stash of silver coins. We told him Lord Arthur was dead, and he laughed, jest laughed and laughed. It fair to shriveled yer soul to hear that black laugh.”

Miggins whispered, “Mayhap the Black Demon believed Lord Arthur a coward, my lord, that he was hiding behind us. Can ye imagine such a thing? Lord Arthur would have fought until he was hacked to death, and his spirit would have continued to fight until he was naught but dirt and air.”

Aleric said, “But how did this Black Demon and his men get into Wareham? It’s a mighty fortress, not a puling little cottage.”

Tupper said, “We believe that foul-breathed steward Eisen was a traitor and let the Black Demon’s men in through the hidden postern gate that leads down to the beach. He let in a string of soldiers dressed just as ours are, and they lowered the drawbridge and raised the portcullis before any knew what they were about.”

Miggins said, her old voice breaking, “The Black Demon unleashed devastation and misery, and he gloried in it, I swear that to ye, jest as he swore it was his right, his pleasure, what was due him. When he destroyed everything, when he could find no one else to kill and torture, he fell into a rage and killed one of his own men who dared to question him. Then he and his men left. When the dawn comes, ye’ll see, my lord, ye’ll see the desolation that demon wrought.”

Tupper wove where he stood and Garron grabbed him and held him upright. “It’s all right, Tupper. Tell me the rest of it.”

“Yer brother’s few remaining soldiers melted away, for they had no master to direct them or to pay their wages, and why would they remain in a place of death?

“We pray that some escaped to the Forest of Glen. But we do not know, since no one could come back. Even if they could, why should they? There was naught left here, naught but the smell of rot and death.”

“Do you know who this Black Demon is?”

Both Miggins and Tupper shook their heads.

“Do you know, Eller?”

The man shook his head.

Miggins stepped away from Garron, took Eller’s thin arm, and squeezed. “Poor Eller, one of the Black Demon’s men cut out his tongue because he cursed him for killing his boy and thass why he can’t speak to ye.”

“Eller?”

The man nodded.

“Show me.”

Eller opened his mouth. What was left of his tongue was no longer raw, thank the good Lord, and it was healing. But now he was mute.

Garron lightly laid his hand on the old woman’s shoulder. “How many days after Arthur’s death did this happen? How long ago?”

Miggins scratched her scalp. “Four days after we buried him, the Black Demon came. Now there are naught but spirits here, and barely a score of us left, all of us starving.”

“I am sorry. I am sorry for all of this. But I will do the best I can to restore Wareham.”

Tupper nodded, squeezed Garron’s big hand.