The Valcourt Heiress (Medieval Song 7)

Once again she crossed herself. “Aye, I have, several times. I saw her only once, so beautiful she was, all golden and white, and she was laughing, at what I don’t know, I saw nothing to make me laugh. She looked glorious, like a princess or an angel, but then she suddenly looked at me, and it was like I was a mirror and she was looking into me and I was looking out at her. I saw meanness deep inside her, aye, and death was behind her eyes.”

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Golden and white? Glorious? What was this about? She was Merry’s mother, not some fresh young maid to be admired. Then he supposed any female would seem young to the old woman. Meanness deep inside her and death behind her eyes? Aye, he could well believe that. He gave her several coins. She began rubbing them against her palms, stroking them like a lover. “They’re lovely, at least I think they are, but I really can’t see them. Is the silver bright as the sun?” she said, still caressing them.

“When the sun comes up in a few hours, you will see how bright they are.”

“I haven’t seen coins like this since my poor deaf Allard finally croaked it after a tree fell right on him. When I laid him out, I found two more silver coins jest like these sewn into his trousers. They were shiny. We’ll see. I will bury my coins jest yon, beneath that dripping oak tree. There bain’t no one to give them to. Mayhap a druid slept once beneath that tree, mayhap the spirit of the druid will accept my offering and will save ye from the witch. But I doubt it.”

Garron said, “Mayhap the spirits will listen, but no matter. I will save myself.” Garron swung up onto his destrier’s back, nodded to Gilpin, Arnold, and John, and clicked Damocles forward. Why had he asked about the witch? And he’d been right, he was close, he knew it to his soul. And he would find Merry. He would find her in time. They rode past the old hut, out of the clearing and back into the thick forest. Thankfully there was a bit of moonlight coming through the trees, so they could see the path.

It was near dawn and the light was gray. When the trees began to thin, Garron called his men to halt. She was near, he felt it to his bones. “All of you, wait here. I will call if I find something.”

“But, my lord—”

He didn’t want to argue with Gilpin, didn’t want to clout him into obedience, but a sense of urgency was pushing him hard. “All right, Gilpin, you will come with me. Arnold, you and John wait for my signal. Stay alert. A witch lives here. The old woman said she was dangerous. Gilpin, stay in my shadow, or I will kick your belly into your backbone, do you understand?”

Gilpin, not understanding anything at all, nodded.

They came through the thin line of trees into a wide clearing. A stone enclosure sat in the middle of the clearing, forming a rough circle about thirty feet across. The wall was a good eight feet high. A stout wooden gate was built into the wall. Suddenly the gray dawn sky turned black again and thunder boomed loud, once, twice, three times, directly over their heads. Lightning slashed through the trees behind them, splitting an ancient oak in half, not ten feet away. He heard Arnold call out and Garron knew he was afraid. He refused to believe a witch could call up the weather, that was nonsense, but he knew it was a warning, knew it in the deepest part of him, but a warning of what? A warning from whom? You shouldn’t be here, this place will kill you, the witch will curse you, and you will be buried beneath this wall and your bones will molder and no one will ever know where you are—

There was another boom of thunder, right over his shoulder this time. Gilpin’s horse reared on its hind legs. Garron managed to grab the reins and pull the terrified animal close to Damocles, who stood quiet as a nun at vespers. Garron wondered if Damocles was simply too afraid to move.

He looked at Gilpin’s white face and said quietly, “It will be all right. Don’t be afraid.” Gilpin swallowed bile and didn’t move. They waited a moment, but there was no more thunder or lightning. Garron dismounted, handed Gilpin Damocles’ reins. “Stay here. Keep the horses calm. Wait for me. No, don’t argue, I will be all right.”

The rain poured down again, so much hard rain Garron felt the earth beneath his feet begin to slide. It was England, it always rained, there

was no magick at work here, no damned witch casting a spell on the clouds.

There was no handle on the gate. He pushed at it, but the gate didn’t move. It was barred on the inside, nothing more than that. Garron looked more closely at the stone wall, saw the stones weren’t smoothly set one against the other. He found purchase and climbed. When he reached the top of the wall, he turned back and saw only Gilpin’s shadow through the thick rain. Thank St. Clement’s meaty bones, Gilpin hadn’t moved. As for Arnold and John, he couldn’t make them out at all through the gray blur.

He lay flat atop the wall and looked down into the enclosure. It was past dawn and he could see there were no trees, no scrubs within the stone walls. The ground was covered with wooden planks leading from the gate to the tower that rose perhaps thirty feet into the air. It looked solid and grim, desolate, not a single sign of life. Three narrow windows marked the three tower levels, all of them facing to the east. There were three small buildings connected to the tower by wooden roofs, and a small stable huddled just inside the gate. He lay still, calmed himself, and listened. He heard nothing save the miserable, endless rain.

His urgency was great now, prodding him, making his heart drum loud in his chest. He had to get inside that godforsaken tower. He knew Merry was in there, and she needed him. He didn’t want to turn his back to the tower, but he had to. He didn’t want to risk breaking his leg by jumping off the wall. He climbed down several feet, then jumped, lightly landed on his feet. He drew his sword, pulled his knife from his sleeve, and ran to the tower, his boots loud on the wooden planks. In front of him was a tall, narrow black door. There was a symbol painted in white at eye level. Up close it looked like a half moon, no, not quite a half moon, more a sickle, and there were three crooked lines slashed through its middle. He’d never before seen a symbol like that one. What could it possibly mean?

He pushed down the iron handle. He had no hope of it opening, but it did, easily and smoothly, not making a sound.

He took a step inside. The narrow door closed quietly behind him. He whirled about, but there was nothing there. The wind, he thought, a gust of wind blew it closed, but deep inside him, he knew that wasn’t true. He cursed into the silent air.

Before him lay a long narrow corridor, its stone floor bare as the walls, so deeply buried in shadows he couldn’t see the other end. On either side of him was a door. He pressed his ear to the right door, listened. He heard nothing. The door opened easily. He stepped into dim light, not as dark as the corridor since there was a single high eastward facing window above his head. It was a workroom of some sort, and he saw it was sickle-shaped, which made sense since he was in a tower. There were baskets of all sizes stacked along a far wall. Something deep inside him didn’t want to know what was inside those baskets. Shelves climbed the curving walls, and upon those shelves sat dark bottles and oddly shaped bowls and piles of dried plants. Were the bottles empty? He would swear he saw a flash of movement in one of the larger bottles. No, he didn’t want to look. Several benches sat in front of two long bare tables. He stood quietly for a moment, listening, but he didn’t hear anything. He was surrounded by stillness and cold, and stale air. Surely no one had been in this room for a very long time.

He walked across the narrow corridor to press his ear to the opposite door. Again, he heard nothing. When he opened the door and stepped inside, he saw this room was deeply shadowed since there were no windows, and it too appeared to be empty. No, wait. The room wasn’t empty. He heard a rustling sound. Slowly, he raised his face and looked up.

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He stared up at a dozen black ceiling beams that stretched the length of the room, some six feet above his head. Atop each beam birds huddled, pressing into each other, seemingly asleep. Crows, he saw, dozens of black crows sitting in a long line. Then he stopped cold. The farthest beam didn’t have crows sitting on it, but dozens of bats. The bats weren’t asleep. He saw wings stretch out, heard them rustling, then one of them flew directly at him. Garron swung with his arm and hit the bat, knocking it to the stone floor. Another came at him, then a dozen more. Garron jerked open the door and slammed it closed behind him. He heard a bat strike the door, then another. He heard the crows stirring now, heard their harsh caws.

He stood in the dim corridor a moment, trying to calm himself, waiting. Waiting for what? For more of the bats to hurl themselves at the door, to claw through it, and attack him? No, no, the door was stout, he was safe. But how had the birds even gotten into that room? He could make no sense of it.

When silence fell again, he walked toward the back of the tower. The corridor became darker with each step. He saw curving narrow stairs against the back tower wall, winding to the right. He climbed a half-dozen deep, narrow stairs. He paused. It was now pitch black and he simply couldn’t see. He placed one hand against the stone wall beside him and kept climbing. He walked upward, ever upward, and the stairs seemed to grow narrower, almost too small for his feet, but it didn’t matter. He kept walking, one step after another. At last he reached the second level. And he saw the stairs simply ended. But how could that be, since he’d seen a vertical line of three windows on the outside stone wall? He was sure of it; so that meant there had to be three separate levels in this damnable tower. But how to get to the top level? He shook his head. It didn’t matter. It was nothing but tricks, he thought, a witch’s tricks meant to confuse him, make him doubt himself.

Garron realized this second level was identical to the floor below him, a room on each side, the long dim corridor separating them.

He walked to the door on the right, listened a moment, then eased the door open and looked inside. Since there was no window, it was all deep shadows. He made out a large bed that sat squarely in the middle of the room, blue velvet hangings enclosing it. A fire burned brightly in a fireplace, but somehow the light given off didn’t pierce the black shadows. But it was warm in the room. Unless the witch was presenting him with an illusion, then someone was here and that someone had laid the fire, and kept it built up. But how was that possible? There was no hole for escaping smoke, yet no smoke gushed into the small room.

He saw the thick velvet bed hangings shift, showing a part of the bed. Was there movement in that bed? Was that a woman lying on that bed?

Merry?