A CONFUSING PLACE
The stone arch of the gate soared up from the closely growing trees. Amabel looked up, the sky suddenly dazzling and powdery blue above her head. She swallowed hard, struggling to breathe.
“State your name and business!” A sentry shouted harshly. “What do you here in Buccleigh?”
Amabel stiffened. She looked at the sentry flatly. “I am the lady of Buccleigh,” she said thinly, but in a voice that brooked no fuss. “Amabel Blackheath. I am here to see my father with news of an urgent nature. Kindly convey word of my presence to him. He'll want to know I was admitted as soon as I arrived.”
The sentry gulped, seeming suddenly to run out of fresh air. “Yes, milady.”
He shouted orders briskly and she heard a high squealing creak as the gate was drawn up.
She rode through, her horses' feet clopping loudly in the space below the arch. She directed him to her right along the cobbles, heading through the town and up towards the fortress.
I am going to settle this. Then I will leave. I will see Rufus again.
She was surprised by how much, as she rode through the closely pressed wattle houses with their thatch, the stone walls and the churches, she missed his presence. She found herself looking over as if half-expecting him to appear there on her right, as he always did, with some quirky witticism.
I miss him so.
She sighed. She was being silly. She had known him two weeks. She couldn't feel this strongly. It made no sense.
I love him. That is all the sense I need to make of it.
Her heart stilled as she made herself focus on her immediate surroundings. The walls, the cobbles, the sound of her horse's hoof beats on stone. She passed several townspeople and they stood back, letting her canter past. She felt their eyes on her and realized she must look quite an unusual spectacle.
Here I am, with my hair loose, in a white robe and a blue shawl, riding unaccompanied in the road, a lady alone.
It was something unheard of.
She reached the gates of the castle, heart thumping.
“My lady!” a voice, astonished, called down.
“Greer,” she called up urgently. “Open the gate.”
“Yes, milady.”
She saw the man-at-arms – one of the handful of those she knew from her visits to Buccleigh throughout her childhood – bend to the crank that would wind the gate open. Then she heard the soft oiled squeal of metal sliding on oiled metal.
She was in.
She rode urgently across the cobbled courtyard to the stables.
“See that he's well-tended,” she called succinctly to the stable hand. The man caught the reins as she jumped down, staring at her in a mix of wonder and terror. She walked past smoothly, feeling her heart suddenly go stiff with strain as she neared the pointed arched doors that would admit her to the hall.
What if her father wasn't even here? What would she do? How would she explain to her grandfather that she had simply arrived here, alone and unchaperoned, on some wild errand? She breathed out. In her pocket was the brooch. She had to convince herself she had reason enough to be here. She patted it. It was enough.
She continued up the stairs to the door.
“Open it,” she ordered the guards. The one on her left stiffened, but the one on her right did what she asked hurriedly, perhaps too shocked by the order coming from a woman – unusual and terrifying, no doubt, she thought grimly – to obey.
She walked quickly and lightly into the gray darkness.
The door shut behind her.
Inside, Amabel looked across the gray flagstone-paved entrance-hall. She felt her heart thudding slowly in her chest and breathed deeply to compose herself. She reached up and straightened her hair, wishing she had a comb to fix it properly.
Can't be helped. I need to find my father. At once.
She chose to head to the solar, and walked briskly up the steps.
“Milady.” A guard recognized her, staring at her in surprise. He stood to attention smartly though and Amabel could almost hear him wondering how she'd got there so fast and whether her father had somehow summoned her here. She strode to the arched doors on her right, passing through the pooled sunlight on the floor of the upper colonnade.
“Father,” she said, striding in through the doors. She stopped. Stared.
“My lady,” a man said. He stood. He was not her father, though he had a vague resemblance to him, something about the set of his body and his jaw more than his face, which was longer than her father's, bearded and with pale blue eyes, slightly bulbous, that were nothing like the deep-set brown gaze of her father.
“Sir?” she asked. He was wearing a black robe and she guessed he might be a priest of some sort.
“Amabel.”
Amabel turned and smiled, relieved, at the voice on her left.
“Greetings, grandfather,” she said formally. She went to the old man, who was a shorter, broader-muscled version of her father with a craggier, older face. “How fares my grandfather?”
“Well, daughter,” he said with a soft voice. “How come you to be here in my hall all of a sudden? When my son's departed?”
“Departed.”
“Oh, yes,” the older man said, frowning and then softening as if in memory. “Yes, he left two days prior. And please. Meet Sir Jacques Prolegnac. He is an envoy from France.”
“Oh.” Amabel curtsied to the man. He bowed. He pressed his lips dryly to her hand and Amabel shivered. There was something she decided she did not like about the man, though she had no reason for the feeling other than that he was here, now, where she had expected to find someone else, namely her father. “Enchanted, good sir.”
“I am honored, mademoiselle.”
Amabel turned from him as soon as it was polite to do so, returning to her grandfather.
“Grandfather?” she asked quickly. “When did my father go? Where is he? I have news I must deliver to him personally.”
Her grandfather took her hand. “Dougal's gone off to Avermarsh, young lady,” he said lightly. “He'll be a day or two there – had to organize some iron from the trade there. I understand he means to head directly back. I apologize if we have ruined your visit,” he said with a rueful smile. “I'm afraid your father would have returned to you much sooner had our friend Prolegnac not arrived the day before he intended departing.”
“Oh.” Amabel let out a long out-breath. She felt weak, suddenly. It was with relief. “Oh, grandfather...” she sighed. She let herself lean on his arm a moment. “Apologies,” she added. “But when he didn't come to the castle I had reason to believe he might be endangered...” She shook her head.
“Why did you think that?” the envoy asked softly. “You encountered trouble on the road, madame?”
Amabel felt her brow lift sharply. Why was he asking her that? Had he? Or, worse, did he know of trouble on the road for some more sinister purpose..?
“I saw no trouble,” she said firmly. “Some brigands, mayhap, but none to trouble me.” She tilted her chin, watching his expression change. She fancied she saw his eyes widen fractionally, as if he were surprised by that, and then clear. She bit her lip.
I might be imagining all that. I just don't like him. Something about him sits uneasily.
She shook her head. Probably just tired, she thought.
“Now, granddaughter,” her grandfather was saying chidingly. “You rode ahead of your escort-party, did not you?” he shook his head, patting her hand distractedly. “How many times have I to tell you? These woods are no safe place for a woman.”
Amabel sighed, giving her grandfather an impatient grin. “Grandfather, you know I rode head of my escort. However, I had to get here. I was so worried about Father...” she trailed off. He looked at her with eyes that spoke of sorrow and impatience, stirred together.
“Now, granddaughter,” he said. “I've told you before. You will disgrace yourself one day...”
She closed her eyes, coming to a halt in the center of the room as he led her out towards the hallway.
When she opened her eyes, he grinned.
“You know, you're like I was as a lad. Impatient, impulsive. Too much energy for one body. Come on, then.” He smiled indulgently. “Go and get ready for dinner. Your old room's made up. You know it's ready.”
Amabel smiled. She had used the same room in the west wing ever since she was a girl. She took his hand, making him blush. She winced, feeling the coldness of his fingers.
“Thank you,” she said. “I'll ready myself for dinner and join you in the solar in a moment.”
“Off you go, then.”
As she went up to her room, Amabel found her mind in turmoil. What was going on? None of this made any sense. If her father was detained, why had he sent her no word? Why had he gone off so suddenly on an unplanned trip? Who was Sir Prolegnac?
She opened the door to her bedchamber and collapsed on the bed, weary and confused. She looked up at the ceiling. The sun warmed the blue linen coverlet and she curled up in the warmth, the first proper rest she'd had in two days.
What can I do?
She sighed, feeling the heavy presence of the brooch in her pocket where it slid down her thigh and onto the bed. She reached for it and held it close.
It was the seal of her enemies. However, lately it had been held by Rufus, as he frowned at the emblem, his face angry and confused. She recalled each inch of him and felt her heart melt with warmth.
As long as she had the brooch, she was close to Rufus. She closed her fist round the warming silver and held it tight.
Then she slid it back into her pocket, sat up and went to the dressing table.
She sat down on the embroidery covered seat, opened a drawer and found what she had hoped would be there – the silver comb that she had left there for her use here, a place she visited at least once a year, mayhap more. As she drew the comb through her hair she studied her reflection.
She looked tired. Her face was pale and her eyes even bigger than usual. Her cheeks seemed to have sunk a little on the journey, probably a result of the cold and lack of food. With her hair brushed out smoothly, though, the wildness in her face abated slightly. She looked less desperate, calmer. More in control.
“There.”
Then she had to dress. The clothing box held a pair of gowns. One was a brocade so old she doubted it would fit, the second a bright blue velvet she had left here a few years before. She took it out and went to the door.
“Hello?”
A brief foray up the hallway produced Merry, the older woman who had worked as her and her mother's maid whenever they visited. Merry was the name she had called her when she was a little girl. She had long since ceased to think of her as any other.
“My lady!” the older woman said kindly. “A rare surprise! Come! Let me fasten that dress. And do your hair properly! With a fillet, keeping it off your face. You have such pretty hair. We can't let it all hang about loosely like that...”
As the woman fussed and Amabel felt herself chafing under her careful ministration, she glanced sideways out of the window. There, she saw something that made her stare in interest.
That's Prolegnac.
The tall, darkly robed man was in the courtyard, talking with another man. The two men who stood with them were, like them both, wearing dark robes. She frowned. They were talking in earnest. She saw Prolegnac hand something to the foremost man, who concealed it in a leather satchel. Then the group was hurrying away, raising a hand and heading out to the traders' gate. She frowned.
In itself, there was nothing strange to see in that. Perhaps Prolegnac was a friar, as his robe suggested. The other men could be members of whatever order it was that he belonged to. They might be receiving some manuscripts from him, something they could not obtain in their own country. Or messages from one bishop to another. It was a regular occurrence.
I would think nothing of it, except that his manner is so odd.
She thought back to how Prolegnac had looked around. He'd walked back checking left and right, somehow furtive.
I don't trust him.
She shivered.
“There now,” the maid was saying fondly. “All done. My! You look lovely.”
Amabel blinked. The mirror showed her a face with high cheekbones and wide lips, the features heightened by the fact that her hair was drawn back, bound off her brow with a thread of silver filigree. The bright blue of her eyes was enhanced by the powder blue velvet of the gown. She looked striking.
I wish I was sitting down for dinner in other company than this.
She wished she was still with Rufus in the forest. Wearing wool and a makeshift cape, her hair loose and ragged, she had been happier than dressed in velvet in a castle, sitting in the great hall.
I hope Rufus is safe.
She swallowed and stood, turning to the older woman who smiled up at her fondly.
“Thank you, Merry,” she said.
“Oh, mistress, 'tis so lovely to see you here again. I thought when I saw the master that he'd come alone. I'm glad that isn't so.”
“No,” Amabel nodded. She frowned. She considered asking the woman if she'd heard anything – if she knew why her father had hurried off so suddenly, perhaps. However, she decided against it. She would not want her to have the faintest possibility of trouble with Prolegnac.
And he is a dangerous man.
She didn't know why she thought that, but she did.
Shuddering, she headed to the solar.
“Thank you,” she said to a footman, who appeared and, bowing, showed her to her seat. She walked over briskly, frowning that the place was empty still. Then she stared in surprise as Prolegnac stood up from the darkness by the corner, where he'd been sitting, reading a scroll.
“My lady,” he said softly. “It's enchanting to see you.”
Amabel frowned. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “Where is my grandfather?”
“He's coming,” he said. “Though I think he may be in some haste.”
“Haste,” Amabel echoed flatly. She fixed him with a look. “What haste?”
He smiled. “Sorry, my lady,” he said smoothly. “But it seems your grandfather is called away on urgent business.”
“Urgent business.”
“Yes,” he replied. “I am sorry. It is such a pity that your reunion with him be so protracted. But it is urgent, and you would not wish to hold him from it, I'm sure.”
“Is it the same business that called my father away?” she asked boldly.
He smiled. It was a different smile, however. One that did not reach his eyes.
“Ah,” he said. “It seems you are a lady that jumps to conclusions. Perhaps you are too hasty. No, it is different business. It is for him to say, though.” he demurred.
“Yes,” Amabel said coldly. “It is. Now, shall we sit?” she asked, drawing back her own chair and sitting down testily. “Grandfather doesn't stand on ceremony. I have known him long enough to know.”
He smiled thinly. “You have his temper,” he said with some warmth. “I hope it will not prove to be dangerous, as he suggested.”
Amabel looked into those cool blue eyes. She stared. Her heart thumped. Was that a threat?
“I do not believe my temper has caused me danger in the past,” she said, heart pounding as she spread a linen square on her knee and reached for a pitcher of heated ale. “I think it is the interference of others that endangers me, not it of itself.”
He laughed again, a low chuckle. “Oh, dangers are everywhere, milady.”
Amabel looked into his eyes. The look her gaze met was one of unmasked hostility. She stared back. Set down the goblet. He looked down and she heard footsteps in the stone-floored hall behind.
“Ah! Granddaughter,” she heard her grandfather's familiar voice call out. “You made it down before me. Welcome.” He clapped his hands. “Well, men! Let's get dinner up. My granddaughter shall starve before we feed her, at this rate. Now, then. Let's begin.”
He took his seat at the head of the table, on her left, and smiled warmly at them both, clasping his hands under his chin. He seemed to sense the tension, for she saw him look left and right, from one to the other of them and then back to her.
“Does anyone have any objections to a toast?” he asked.
“Please, make one,” Amabel said tonelessly.
“To your father, the future duke, and to our enterprise.”
“My father and enterprise.” Amabel echoed. She frowned. Presumably whatever “enterprise,” it was the reason for the envoy's presence. What was happening?
“I am informed you will be leaving us soon,” she asked bluntly.
“What, ah, oh yes.” He grandfather nodded. “I must head to the coast. I am sorry, granddaughter,” he said and he looked genuinely apologetic, making Amabel reach a hand across to him.
“It is no matter, grandfather,” she said fondly. “I'll be back soon.”
“I know, I know,” he sighed. “But I'm not as young as all that and I count the years and wonder if I shall be graced with enough to see you grow into a young lady here at Buccleigh.”
“You'll be around for ages yet,” she said fondly. “In fact, you'll be around for so long that Father will start chafing that he'll never see any inheritance.”
Her grandfather laughed loudly, but when she mentioned the “inheritance,” she was surprised to see a flicker of tension cross the envoy's face.
I wonder what you are really doing here?
She frowned. “You mentioned an enterprise, Grandfather?”
“I think it would be mannerly to let your grandfather eat his dinner undisturbed,” the envoy said smoothly.
Amabel's head whipped up. She glared at him. On her left her grandfather's chuckle broke the tension.
“I know it's unconventional, sir,” he said to the envoy, “but I keep no secrets from my grand-daughter. After all, she is an heiress too. She should know aught of the place. Amabel,” he said gently. “I have been in negotiation with this fellow here,” he waved a hand at Sir Jacques, who bridled at the gesture, making Amabel smile humorlessly. “And he tells me that there is great wealth to be had in exports. Particularly in the import of claret, for the export of brandy. Now, as you know, I've long encouraged distillation here. I was thinking of setting up a trade with a man in France. Our good friend across the table there is setting it up for me,” he said, grinning at Amabel. He was clearly aware of the tension and on her side. She smiled thankfully and patted his hand.
“Thank you for telling me, Grandfather,” she said fondly. “That sounds fascinating. Now,” she added, turning to the gentleman, “I am safe to assume that grandfather's absence is connected to his trading enterprise. Therefore, I shall not worry. Not so, Grandfather.”
“Oh, you fuss overmuch about an old scarecrow, granddaughter,” he said fondly. “I'm weather-hardened and battle-marred and it'll take a pack of wild beasts to knock the life out of me.”
“I know,” she said fondly. “But I still worry.” She added, with a level gaze across the table.
“Charming,” the Frenchman said flatly. “Such daughterly affection is a joy to behold.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said sweetly.
Her grandfather, completely oblivious to the underlying exchange, clapped his hands. “Ah! Here comes the first course. I trust everyone here is partial to fish?”
“Indeed, grandfather,” Amabel smiled, breathing in the savory scent into a hungry frame.
“Ah. Perfect. I do love a good dinner.”
They ate in silence. Amabel felt her heart pounding. She was afraid. Whatever the envoy thought of her, he clearly meant her harm.
Why had her father left so suddenly? She still had no answer to that question. Why was the man so reluctant for her to know where her grandfather was going? What was going on?
Dinner was a lengthy time and, for the entire duration of it, Amabel found herself twitching. She had to get out of here.
By the time the apples, stewed in spiced syrup and strewn with crocquante, were circulating around the dinner table, she was almost half crazed with tension.
She finished the dessert in silence, licking the spoon – it was one of her favorites, despite the tension – and stood.
“Thank you for the excellent dinner,” she said politely to her grandfather. “But if you will excuse me, Grandfather? I am most weary.”
“Oh, of course, of course,” he said, waving a friendly hand in her direction. “Please! Take a rest. I'll to the courtyard myself, as you mention it. I must pack for my journey tomorrow. We leave at first light. First light.”
Amabel smiled at him and nodded. “Excuse me, Grandfather.”
She was walking quickly up the hallway to the stairs when she heard steps behind her. She turned around.
“Hello?”
Sir Jacques appeared at her side. He took her wrists in his hands and, to her horror, drew her toward him. His face was tight and pale with distaste and rage.
“Sir!” she shouted in alarm. “You will let me go.”
She wrenched to the side but his grip was unchanging.
“You will be silent,” he hissed. “Your grandfather allows you too many liberties. No wonder your father despairs of making you a suitable heiress. No. You will not ask questions. You will do as you are bidden,” he hissed as Amabel tried to wrench away. “You will stay here when your grandfather departs tomorrow. And you will smile and wed Lord Callum. Making him the heir of Buccleigh.”
“No!” Amabel shouted.
She stiffened as he released her wrist and raised his fist. He wouldn't strike her, would he? She flinched, remembering the white-hot, agonizing blow the vagabond had dealt her those days previously.
“You will do as you are bidden,” the man said, and wrenched her sideways.
“Where are you taking me?” Amabel yelled aloud.
“If you cannot be trusted, and I see that you cannot – you see too much – you will be locked in your chamber. Who on earth even let you get here? I have no idea.”
“No!” Amabel shouted. She tried to wrench her wrist from his grasp, but it was too firm.
Shouting, kicking and protesting, she was dragged up the hallway at some speed, toward her chamber. She found herself locked in from the outside, the key turned. She felt her heart sink into despair as she heard his feet head up the hallway, the steps slowly fading away.
How was she going to stop this from happening? Something was very wrong and she knew that now. How could she stop it, though?
She didn't know.
With fear and tension exhausting her, she rolled up on her bed and cried.