Cath of Covington

The following is a work of fan-fiction, and is not intended to infringe on the copyrights held by ABC Television, Gil Grant Productions, or any other holder of Covington Cross Copyrights.  No profit is being made from this story–the author is simply continuing the saga of the Greys (particularly one curly-haired second son) in her own warped way.  

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This one is for Karen who waited patiently (a very, very long time) for a story I promised oh, so many moons ago.  Okay, so maybe this *isn’t* exactly the plot we discussed, but it’s still filled with lots and lots of scenes involving “that curly-haired guy”  ;-)  And to anyone who remembers Penelope Brandleford from “Chance Encounter” she makes a repeat visit.

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RATED: R (There is nothing explicit in this story . . . no sex, language or violence, but there’s plenty of innuendo, and some of the subject-matter left me a little uncomfortable tagging it with a PG-13.  The R rating is probably too strong, but I thought I’d play it safe.)  Comments welcome.

WHEW!  Now get busy reading!

Wraith

Thomas Grey raised his goblet, offering yet another ingratiating grin over the top of the ornate pewter object.  Beside him, his second eldest son, Richard uttered a half-vocal groan, bowing his head to avoid commenting on the latest witticism voiced by Sir Gervase Woodward, Lord of Glenchase.  With a reprimanding glare, Thomas nudged Richard in the ribs.  Woodward, who was too drunk to notice, guffawed loudly at his own crassness and bellowed for more wine. 

Seated at a long table carved from sturdy oak, Woodward, Thomas and Richard shared a sumptuous late-day feast with eighteen other guests in the Great Hall of Candlemyre Manor.  Home to Stanton Brandleford, the stately edifice was approximately four days ride from Covington Cross—a journey the Greys had completed only that morning.  Though Armus, and Lady Elizabeth Leland had accompanied Thomas and Richard on the trek, both were presently engaged in conversation at the opposite end of the table. 

“Ah, Brandleford, you throw a mighty fine Mayfest,” the brawny Woodward commented to his host, who was seated three chairs away at the head of the table.  Snatching the wine pitcher from a wary serving girl, the inebriated noble sloshed blood-red liquid into his heavy-footed goblet.  “I haven’t seen half your guests in much too long.” 

“Not long enough for my taste,” Richard muttered. 

Thomas, who heard, pressed his lips into a tight line.  Much to his chagrin, his twenty-two year old son was frequently disrespectful.  “I heartily agree, Gervase.  It’s far too long between visits.”  Dropping his hand in a seeming gesture of camaraderie, Thomas clapped Richard sharply on the leg.  “Not to overshadow our host, but my son was just commenting how pleased he’d be to have you provide a lesson in swordmanship.” 

“Father.”  Richard’s glance was quick-silver and sharp. 

“Would he now?”  Woodward puffed beneath the compliment.  Leaning heavily on the table, he stared directly at Richard, his deep-sunken eyes struggling to focus.  “I’ve heard about this whippet.  Quick and cunning with a blade, they say, but there’s always room for young knights to learn from old warmongers, eh Thomas?” 

“Well said.” Straightening his shoulders, Thomas paused.  His posture, annoyed and vaguely combative, made the flow of conversation slow around him.  “That’s the problem with our younger knights.” His eyes sidled to his son. “They lack respect.” 

Clearly perturbed, Richard tensed.  Ignoring Woodward, he stared at Thomas.  “Perhaps because respect needs to be earned, rather than assumed.” 

Richard snorted.  “When there’s something to admire, I’ll reconsider.”  Pushing back his chair, he stood, oblivious to the sudden chorus of shocked gasps around him.            

Thomas gripped his arm before he could turn.  The older man’s face was white, his blue eyes dark with fury.  “Sit down!” the Lord of Covington Cross ordered between tightly clenched teeth.  Enraged, he struck Richard an open-handed blow. 

Painfully aware all eyes in the room were focused on him, Richard wrenched free. “I’ll do as I please,” he spat.  Face flushing with embarrassment and anger, he turned crisply and strode from the room.  Behind him the awkward silence was shattered by the savage fury of Thomas’s condemning curse. 

Richard never slowed as he strode down the stone corridor.  He felt heat on his face, a nervous trickle of sweat on the back of his neck.  His heart bumped against his ribs, sudden and furious as the after-effects of the ugly scene flowed through his body.  He hadn’t expected Thomas to strike him, but knew it was deserved.  Did I really say those things to my father?   Briefly closing his eyes, he relived Thomas’s departing curse.  Though he’d only caught part of it, it had been concise enough for Brandleford’s guests to realize  irreparable damage had been done.  There could be no doubt father and son had reached a crossroads. 

Breath quickening, Richard passed from the castle, into the outer courtyard.  A spring breeze caressed his face, drying cold sweat beneath the long fringe of his bangs.  To the east, the sun melted against the horizon, washing ground, trees and pitted gray stone with a veil of red and gold.  Richard followed a short path to the gardens.  He’d visited frequently enough over the years to know the twists and turns of Candlemyre.  Avoiding the large, sprawling haven where Lady Brandleford often entertained female guests, Richard entered a small box garden on the west side of the manor.  Brandleford had constructed it specifically for his daughter Penelope, hoping to soften her hard edges amid an oasis of heather, daylilies, and jasmine.  Knowing how much the younger Lady Brandleford detested anything construed to make her behave “properly” Richard deemed it the last place she or anyone else would visit. 

Feeling disoriented after the abominable scene in the Great Hall, he craved solace and privacy to examine his feelings without interruption.  Entering the garden through a narrow gate, Richard was surprised to find it in a state of disarray.   Weeds sprouted among wilted flowers and crawling vines, choking feeble life from once-thriving blossoms.  Bowers were untended and overgrown, infested with dried leaves and broken twigs.  It was as though a windstorm had ravaged the garden, and no one had bothered to remove the debris.   

Surprised, Richard walked slowly to a stone bench.  Once the focal point of the garden, it too had fallen victim to neglect.  Crowded by weeds, it’s pitted surface fouled with lichen and mold, the bench appeared uninviting and old.  As he bent to brush his hands over the cracked surface, the sharp tang of decay rose to Richard’s nostrils.  Grimacing, he glanced at the ground, expecting to find the remains of some small animal in the process of decomposition.  Though the soil was soft and spongy, sucking at the heels of his leather boots, there was no evidence of carrion. 

“Have you found my locket?” 

Richard jerked at the unexpected voice.  Startled, he realized a woman had slipped from the bower of vines and twining hedgerows behind him.  She was perhaps a few years older than Armus.  Long, blonde hair hung unbound about her shoulders, her face sharp and inquisitive, like that of a bird.  Though far from beautiful, the large pools of her black eyes and the sheer, almost alabaster cast of her skin made her oddly intoxicating.  Failing to recognize her, Richard guessed she was one of Brandleford’s many guests, come for the Mayfest. 

“I’m sorry.”  Though he couldn’t put his finger on it, something about her sudden appearance left him flustered.  “I didn’t realize anyone else was here.” 

As though transfixed, she stepped nearer, her eyes wide and engulfing.  A strange sense of alarm skittered along the edge of Richard’s nerves.  “I can’t find my locket,” she repeated.  “Will you help me?” 

Richard wet his lips.  Up close he could see fine blue veins under the near-white cast of her oval face.  Her blonde hair was pale, like milk and butter, her eyes black as midnight.  Frail, almost insubstantial, she seemed like something the wind would carry away.  For one strange, unbalanced moment he wanted to protect her—to shelter her from some unnamed force dancing mockingly beyond his grasp. His throat tightened, his mouth suddenly dry.  “What is your name?” he asked. 

Raising her hand, the woman stroked gentle fingers across his cheek.  Her touch was unnaturally cold, icy as morning air conjured from a high mountain lake.  Like her gaze, the brush of her fingers was riveting, and Richard found he could not move.  Every muscle in his body tensed as she leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips.  “I am Rowena,” she whispered.  “Promise to help me, Richard of Covington Cross.” 

He didn’t remember telling her his name.  There was a sudden ache in his head—a twinge of pain, that scuttled down his neck with the feather-light legs of a spider.  “I—” But no words would come to his cumbersome tongue.  Her arms slipped behind his neck, her fingers tangling in the long strands of his hair.  Richard gasped, feeling the renewed infusion of cold in his body.  And then her lips were on his again, and all he wanted to do was kiss her—to surrender his warmth in the shattering influx of sensation she stirred.  Wrapping his arms about her, Richard drew her slender body closer, crushing her lips beneath his as he took control of the kiss.   

Abruptly she jerked away.  “Someone’s coming.”  

Confused, he grappled with the hollow sensation of emptiness her departure inspired.  “Rowena—” 

Her fingers slipped from his.  With a single glance over her shoulder, she vanished among the tangled trunks of interlocking trees.  

Richard swallowed, his throat dry.  The crunch of twigs and leaves echoed through the air as  footsteps approached behind him.  Whirling, he came face to face with Armus, as his brother emerged around a hedgerow.   

“There you are.”  Armus’s voice was flat, his expression unforgiving.  One glance at his set face, and Richard had little doubt as to his motive.  After the scene in the Great Hall, it was expected his brother would have a word or two of unwelcome advice. 

Sighing, surrendering to the inevitable, Richard laced a hand through his unruly curls.  “I’m not in the mood for a lecture, if that’s why you’re here.”   

Frowning, Armus crossed his arms over his chest.  Between his height, and the stony set of his features, his presence was intimidating.  Nettled by his stance, Richard began to pace, his own posture growing defensive.  Muscles tightened across his shoulders and neck.  “This doesn’t concern you, Armus.  It’s between me and father.” 

 “What is wrong with you?”  Incensed, Armus shook his head.  “You were at father’s throat even before we left Covington.  I know you’ve had moments in the past when you didn’t always see eye-to-eye, but Richard—” Spreading his hands wide, Armus groped for words  “If I hadn’t heard it with my own ears, I’d strangle any man crass enough to imply you’d degrade father in public.”  When the rebuff brought no response, Armus snagged his brother by the arm, wrenching him to an immediate halt.  “Richard, have you lost all sanity?” 

“Apparently.”  Irked, Richard pulled free.  Still disoriented over Rowena’s sudden appearance and hasty departure, he found it difficult to concentrate on anything.  Something unnamed gnawed at his insides, sending a prickle down his spine.  Frigid, damp air wafted across the back of his neck, prompting the sudden, irrational urge to leave the garden.  “Armus, I don’t want to argue about this.  Let’s just go back inside.” 

“You’re not welcome inside, Richard.” 

It was true.  Most of the nobles would shun him after the disparaging remarks he’d made to his father.  It was a wonder Armus was even speaking to him, but then Armus was the diplomat in the family, always trying to sow peace where there was discord.  “I don’t want to stay here, Armus.”  Chilled by the crisp air, Richard shivered.  “I’ll listen to what you have to say, if that’s what you want.  But not here.”   

Unaffected, Armus studied his brother.  He wanted to shout, to throttle him, to tell him his behavior had been nothing short of reprehensible, but the look on Richard’s face stopped him.  It was not the look of a man who only moments before had callously tossed insults with little regard.  

“Armus—”  

Lost in thought, the older man failed to respond.  Richard touched his arm, and he jerked, startled by the abnormally chill feel of his brother’s fingers.  Troubled without understanding why, Armus gave a terse nod.  “I think you know what I have to say.  An apology is in order, a public one.  For father to regain face, you must humble yourself.” 

Deciding he could say no more to sway his headstrong younger brother, Armus walked stiffly from the garden.  Almost simultaneously, the anxiety Richard had been experiencing faded.  Dismissing the encounter with Armus, he turned back into the garden, glancing in the direction Rowena had vanished.  Now that his brother had left, the unnatural urge to depart had also evaporated.   Though he scoured the area, looking for the soulful, blonde-haired woman, he found no trace.   

Eventually, he gave up and returned to the castle.  The reception he received was notably frigid, even curt.  Women snubbed their noses, while men openly glared.  He had little doubt each and every Lord present wanted a turn with him in the tlting field, sword in hand, if only to teach him manners.  Deciding it was safest in his room, Richard passed the time until nightfall, hoping to avoid confrontation.  It was one matter slighting his father, another having every attending knight wanting to take a swing at him.    

Slipping into the hallway, Richard moved quietly through the concealing shadows.  Night clung to the stone walls in soft whorls of black, broken now and again, by sputtering pools of torch-light. Candlemyre Manor was quiet, draped in the folds of a star-dusted night. Reaching the lower level, Richard stepped into the yawning outdoor blackness, drawing the folds of his burgundy cloak against the night air.  A crisp breeze teased his long hair, tumbling ragged curls against his brow and collar.  Creeping along the edge of the keep, Richard moved through the gloaming into the stable.  Within, the air was warmer, thick with the odors of horse, straw and leather.  As he stepped beneath the overhang, a hand slid onto his shoulder. 

Startled, Richard whirled.  “Father.” 

Sir Thomas’s face broke with a craggy smile.  “You’re a little jumpy, aren’t you, Richard?” 

The younger man exhaled, visibly relaxing.  “You would be too, if every yokel with a longsword wanted to take a whack at you.”   

The edge of Thomas’s smile dipped in a frown.  “Yes.  About that—” A crease appeared between his brows.  Extending his hand, he touched his son’s face.  “I’m sorry I hit you.  It seemed prudent at the time.” 

“As did the words I said.”  Catching Thomas’s wrist, Richard drew his arm down, smiling ever so slightly.. “You would have enjoyed the lecture Armus gave me.  He says I have to apologize to you.  Publicly.” 

Thomas chuckled.  “Ever the diplomat.  He doesn’t realize that would ruin everything. I detest having to deceive him and Lady Elizabeth with this ridiculous charade, but there’s no other way to flush Woodward to the fore.  After the incident we staged, he should be contacting you directly.” 

Richard nodded.  He’d known from the beginning, when the King had first contacted Thomas, requesting aid in flushing out a suspected traitor, matters would grow difficult.  Even Thomas had been reluctant in asking for his assistance, hoping to handle the situation on his own.  But Thomas’s credibility and his staunch loyalty to the King were well known, thus he wasn’t a likely candidate for treasonous involvement. Richard, on the other hand, had a reputation for willfulness and arrogance, and had been known to be at cross purposes with his father on more than one occasion. Over the last few weeks both men had fed that allusion, feigning bouts of short-temper and biting remarks. Word had spread they’d been increasingly at odds, even before departing Covington Cross.  By publically slurring his father, Richard hoped Woodward would view him as someone with little scruples, ready to do anything for the right price. 

Sighing, Richard sagged against the stable wall.  “I feel horrible when we argue.  This is no different, even if it is staged.”   

Quirking a grin, Thomas laced an affectionate hand through his son’s long hair.  Snagged in a beam of moonlight, bleeding through the overhang, Richard’s unruly curls were tinted with gold.  “What?  You mean you don’t like having a free hand to spout off at me, without fear of recrimination?” 

Amused, Richard glanced sideways through slitted lashes.  “I think it’s probably best I don’t answer that.”  

“A wise decision,” Thomas agreed.  Stepping away from the wall, he glanced outside.  Though their surroundings were dark and cloaked in shadow, cloud-filtered moonlight illuminated traces of ground, rock and tree.  Clasping his hands behind his back, Thomas glanced at his son.  “I don’t like having the whole castle ready to draw and quarter you, Richard.  As soon as Woodward makes any overture remotely treasonous, we’ll turn the matter over to the King’s Guards.  I’ll wait each night at this time, but don’t risk coming here, unless you have something to report.  Woodward isn’t a fool.  He was drunk tonight, but he might not be so willing to buy our quarrel come morning.  You’re going to have to convince him you’re without principle.” 

Richard grinned cockily.  “That shouldn’t be too difficult.”  

Disturbed, Thomas frowned.  “Don’t be so sure of yourself, Richard.  If the King is right about Woodward, he’s far more dangerous then he appears.  I didn’t want you involved in the first place.  It’s that damnable attitude of yours, that made you the likely choice.”  Frustrated, Thomas scraped a hand through his beard and began to pace.  “I’d feel better if our positions were reversed and it was my neck on the line, instead of yours.” 

Richard’s eyes dipped momentarily, a sensation of warmth spreading across his middle.  Despite the many times he’d truly been at odds with Sir Thomas, there was no question of his father’s loyalty or devotion.  As the older man paused, Richard slipped a hand onto his shoulder.  “I’ll be fine.  After today’s performance, we shouldn’t have to play-act much longer.  It should be over quickly.” 

Grim-faced, Thomas nodded.  “It has to end before the Mayfest at least.  After that, contact with Woodward would appear suspicious.” 

“Agreed.”  Richard’s smile was warm and reassuring.  Pausing, he bit his lip.  “Father . . . about the Mayfest . . . you wouldn’t happen to know if Brandleford has a guest named Lady Rowena?” 

Cautious, Thomas narrowed his eyes.  “Richard, you can’t afford the distraction of female companionship—” 

“I didn’t say—” 

“You didn’t have to.  I know you too well.  Get your mind back on Woodward.” 

“You misinterpret—” 

 “—nothing.”  Thomas’s voice was sharp.  Suddenly brusque, he hiked his cloak closer on his shoulders.  “We’ve dallied here too long.  I’ll leave and enter the castle by the east gate.  You wait a few minutes and go the opposite direction.  And Richard—” Thomas cast his son a pointed glance.  “—be careful.” 

With a silent nod, Richard watched his father depart.  Sighing, he braced a hip against the nearest stall.  It was empty; warm and heady with the scent of fresh straw.  Further away a horse snorted, stamping restlessly in the darkness.  Richard listened to the soft sound of its breath, the minute shuffling of its hooves, comforted by the familiarity.  It had been difficult concentrating on much of anything since his encounter with Rowena.  Something about the strange blonde-haired woman  nibbled at his subconscious, dancing just beyond the fringe of his thoughts.  She’d been unusually forward, while managing to project an aura of innocence and helplessness.  Was it possible a woman who acted so boldly, could also be naive?  She had obviously learned his name from one of the other guests at the castle, but why trouble to do so?  On another occasion he might have been flattered by her attention, but tonight it felt wrong. His father was right—he couldn’t afford the distraction. 

Shaken from his thoughts, Richard realized the clinging odors of stable, horse and straw had abruptly soured.  The air smelled loamy and damp, festering with mold at the edges.  The very atmosphere was weighted, trapped in a fragile prism without sound or motion.  Wrapped in eerie silence, the stable grew deathly still.  Richard tensed, the hair on his neck prickling as the scent of decay drifted to his nostrils.  An infusion of ice bled through his bones. 

“Richard.” 

He turned, finding Rowena standing just behind him.  As in the garden, her abrupt appearance left him oddly unbalanced.  She was dressed as she had been earlier, in a gown of soft blue with a foam-colored sash.  Her white-blonde hair, still unbound, flowed about her shoulders, the luxurious cascade of curls almost as pale as her milky flesh.  Her eyes, large and black, appeared to have no pupils at all.  Richard found he could not look away from her bottomless gaze.

Struggling for words, he wet his lips.  His mind felt slow and confused, his movements stiff.  “Rowena . . . what are you doing here?” 

She tilted her head, looking at him quizzically as though the answer were obvious.  “Looking for my locket, though I’m sure it’s in the garden.  I’d rather be in the garden, Richard, wouldn’t you?” 

“I—” The words stuck in his throat as she stepped nearer.  Her smile was winter-white with the promise of innocence and spring, lingering beneath.  When she raised a delicate hand, brushing icy  fingers across his cheek, Richard closed his eyes.   

“Your skin is so warm,” she whispered, leaning closer.  “You want to kiss me, don’t you?” 

 “Yes.”  He couldn’t say the word quickly enough.  Couldn’t move fast enough to hold her in his arms, claiming her pale lips beneath his.  He jerked at the contact—at the hungry intrusion of her tongue, the startling burst of cold invading his body. 

“Not here,” she whispered, drawing away, twining her fingers with his.  Riveted by her compelling black eyes, Richard followed mutely as she led him to the garden.  Buried deep in his mind, a nerve of warning screamed for him to leave.  But one whispering touch of her icy fingertips . . . one lash-veiled glance of her eyes, quelled the shrill insistence.  

Draped with the bloated shadows of deepest night, the abandoned garden seemed the fantastical creation of a twisted mind.  Trees and hedgerows twined in nightmarish contortions—groping silhouettes splattered with moonlight, like streamers of celestial blood.   The scent of decay was stronger than before, reeking of black earth, mold, and diseased flesh.  Overcome by the stench, Richard gagged. 

Rowena raised her hand, lightly touching his brow.  “It will pass,” she assured.  Her fingertips lingered, savoring the contact with his skin.  A sliver of yearning entered her eyes.  “You’re flesh is so warm,” she marveled again. 

Richard breathed easier, as the stench faded to vague distraction.  The prickling along his neck traveled down his spine, fanning alive every nerve of warning he possessed.  “I . . .I should leave,” he said with difficulty.   

“I want you to stay.”  Her fingers slipped behind his neck, feathering the moon-dusted curls on his collar.  Her eyes were engulfing as she gazed up at him.  “I’m so cold, Richard.  Lay with me and keep me warm.” 

His throat was dry.  He no longer questioned the otherworldliness of the situation, or that every touch of her fingers depleted the limited warmth in his body.  As wrong as he knew the circumstance to be, he hadn’t the will to refuse her.  Whatever spell she’d woven, it ensnared him completely.  Surrendering to the inevitable, he wrapped his arms about her, claiming her chill lips beneath the heat of his own. 

In the garish, decaying garden, Richard gave her his warmth. 

Sunlight streamed across his face, bright and dazzling.  Richard groaned, awakening to the sting of light beneath his eyes.  Disoriented, he sat forward.  The movement induced a surprising barrage of aches, coupled with the strain of protesting muscles. He felt as though he’d spent a day in battle, his strength sapped to the point of near-exhaustion.  An image flickered to life on the edge of his mind—a woman with white-blonde hair and cold, bone-colored flesh.  A woman who had allowed him to make love to her with a passion he hadn’t thought he possessed.   

Half ashamed by his amoral actions, Richard bowed his head into his hands.  Belatedly, he realized he was still in the neglected garden, thoroughly naked, but for the cloak he’d wrapped around himself to ward off the night air.  Images and memories awakened groggily, vying for attention. 

Something deviant and unholy had touched him during the night.  Something with fish-cold lips and skeletal fingers.  The images in his mind blurred.  One moment he recalled an intoxicating woman with sun-white hair and mesmerizing eyes of shadow.  The next, an apparition draped in grave-clothes, with cold, groping hands. As that impression surfaced—powerful and repugnant—Richard sucked down a  horrified breath. 

“It was a dream.  Just a bloody dream,” he said aloud.  But the touch of cold lingered on his body, the feel of questing lips on his flesh.  She’d made his body respond in a way no woman  had before, nor was likely to again.  Disturbed by the memory, Richard gathered his scattered clothing and dressed quickly.  Though the morning air was strung with the early warmth of spring, he shivered.  Wanting to put the garden and its unsettling occupant behind him, Richard strode quickly for the castle.   

He hadn’t taken but a few steps from the neglected bower of trees and hedgerows, when a petulant voice drew him up short.  “Richard!  If you think sneaking into that wretched garden is going to keep you from crossing paths with me, you’re sadly mistaken.” 

Inwardly sighing, Richard drew to a halt.  The quick, agitated steps behind him alerted him to Penelope Brandleford’s presence moments before she appeared.  Her thin, pixieish face was drawn in disapproval as she stalked angrily to his side.  For a petite, sixteen-year-old, she had the presence of a battle-seasoned warlord.  “You’ve been avoiding me.” 

“I’ve been avoiding the castle, Pen.  In case you hadn’t noticed, half of your father’s guests want my head on a pole.” 

“That’s only the men,” Penelope countered saucily.  Folding her arms over her chest, she stared at him boldly.  “The other half—the women—want you in their bed.” 

Richard ground his teeth together.  “It’s no wonder your father hasn’t had any luck marrying you off,” he muttered.  It was routine for them—she, trying to shock him with her boldness, he, flustered by the advances of a child.  Only she wasn’t a child anymore.  Even irked, Richard couldn’t help notice the becoming fit of her embroidered, emerald gown, or the fact that her body had rounded in all the right places.  After the unsettling night he’d spent with Rowena, he felt dirty even thinking of her in such a manner.  Despite her jaded facade, Richard was quite sure Penelope Brandleford, was innocent in the ways of love. 

Smiling up at him, Penelope linked her arm through his.  “I heard that, My Lord.  The only reason Father hasn’t had any luck marrying me off is because I’m still waiting for one particular knight to ask.” 

Richard scowled.  “Pen—” 

She cracked a hand against his shoulder.  “Who said it was you—you puffed-up, vain peacock.” 

Richard raked a hand through his rumpled hair, dislodging bits of clinging grass.  “You sound like John Mullens.” 

“I’m much prettier.” 

“That’s a matter of opinion.” 

“Richard!”  Penelope shrieked. 

Satisfied he’d gained the upper hand, Richard smiled.  Although he’d always avoided her in the past, it was somehow comforting falling into a familiar exchange with Penelope.  The sight of her freckle-dusted nose crinkled in distaste, dispelled the memory of Rowena’s lips on his body.  Though he’d hungered for her touch last night, the recollection of it now, left him feeling slightly  nauseous.  

“You shouldn’t be seen with me,” Richard told the elfin-like girl at his elbow.  “People will talk.” 

“They’re already talking.  How could you be so rude to your father?” 

Richard frowned.  She was harder to shake then he thought.  “I’m arrogant and unscrupulous, or didn’t you know that?”  He started walking, hoping she would take the remark as a brush-off and leave.  Determined, she followed on his heels, her shorter strides double-timed to match his long-legged ones. 

“Arrogant yes, but you’re one of the most honorable men I know.” 

“Penelope.  Don’t do this.”   

“You’re an oaf, Richard Grey.”  She gave a short huff of air when he wouldn’t stop walking.  They were laboring up an incline, her gown flapping loudly about her ankles.  Dew-soaked grass clung to the hem, bleeding damp stains on the expensive material.  As they reached the inner courtyard, a number of servants stopped their work, casting curious glances in their direction. “You’re determined to make a spectacle of yourself, but I can’t fathom why.  By the looks of you, you’d be better off asking your father’s forgiveness than courting stubbornness. You look the role of drunkard, Richard.” 

He halted abruptly.  What she said probably wasn’t far from the truth.  He had a splitting headache, and his eyes were near slits against the glare of sunlight.  His mouth felt coated and dry,  his body violated.  “I had a rough night, Pen.” 

She snorted.  “Who with?”  

Annoyed, he started walking again.  “That’s none of your business.” 

Penelope made a face. “I wouldn’t care if you slept with the whole castle.” 

 “Perhaps I will.” 

She was losing patience.  “You’re such a harlot, Richard.” 

“Women are harlots,” he returned indifferently.  His glance however, was sharp.  “And sixteen-year-old busybodies with long noses, are unwelcome irritations best swept under the rug.” 

Penelope stopped short.  He didn’t realize it until he glanced over his shoulder and found her three steps behind.  Apparently his last remark was a little too much, even for her.  He’d scored a point, but more than that he’d wounded her.  The game they often played had gone from bantering flirtation to cruel disregard.  Perhaps he’d grown a little too adept with the role he adopted for his father. 

Her expression severe, Penelope turned wordlessly and walked away.  “Wonderful,” Richard muttered.  All the times he’d tried to make her leave, when he finally succeeded, he felt awful.  Cursing softly, he continued up the path to the castle.   

Pausing outside his chambers, Richard rested his hand on the latch.  “Was there something you wanted, Lord Denlark?” 

Eyeing him coldly, the older man considered.  “If you were my son, I’d have pinned you to that table and made you apologize until your throat was raw.” 

Richard cocked a brow.  “Pity your son.” 

Bristling, Denlark surged forward.  An irrate finger jabbed against Richard’s chest.  “Sir Thomas is a friend of mine, you uppity little stripling.”  Mouth twisting, Denlark glanced contemptuously at Richard’s sheathed sword.  “If you’re as cocksure with that blade as you profess to be, I’ll be glad to put you to the test.” 

Unflustered, Richard leaned indolently against the door. “If I want exercise, I’ll call a kitchen maid.  She’d likely outlast you, and when the bout was over, at least the spoils would be worth the fight.” 

Furious, Denlark balled his hands into fists.  With obvious effort he refrained from drawing his sword.  “It’s only my loyalty to your father that keeps me from spitting you head to toe.  As ungrateful as you are, Sir Thomas would mourn your miserable passing.” 

“Cleverly evaded,” Richard taunted.  He knew the words were strictly for show.  In all likelihood, Denlark probably detested his father.  Limited patience at an end, he popped the latch on the door.  Once inside, he closed the barrier.  Beyond the stout obstruction, Denlark spewed a string of curses.  Richard lowered the lock, just as the older man’s fist connected with the frame. Swearing savagely, Denlark battered the door. Grimacing, Richard wedged a shoulder against the wood, waiting for the eruption to play itself out.  Eventually the barrage stopped, and the nobleman’s clipped footsteps receded down the corridor. 

Sighing, Richard rolled his back to the door, staring at the ceiling.  The masquerade was growing too comfortable, his insolence almost effortless.  Though he’d tread the thin line of arrogance and poise in the past, he’d never blatantly invited the contempt of others.  Before the charade was over, he’d likely alienate any supporters he had.  Hopefully, that wouldn’t include his family. 

Trudging into the room, Richard collapsed face down on the bed.  He felt like he hadn’t slept in a week.  As his eyes drifted shut, he was unaware of the presence hovering on the other side of the door.   

+++++ 

Sir Gervase Woodward emerged from the shadowed alcove where he’d been sheltered throughout the exchange with Denlark.  Walking unhurriedly down the corridor, he turned the corner, coming face-to-face with the red-haired nobleman.  

“Well?”  Denlark asked.   

“He’s got no love of his father, that’s for sure,” Woodward returned.  “The question is—is he unethical enough to feel the same about his King?” 

Denlark rolled his shoulders.  “Perhaps we should ask.” 

The black-bearded man was thoughtful.  “All in good time,” he said.  “I want to be certain of his motives before I ask Richard Grey to commit treason.” 

+++++ 

Richard slept through most of the day, thoroughly exhausted, his body riddled with chills.  When afternoon faded to dusk, he summoned the servants and had them draw a scalding bath.  Despite the luxuriant heat of the water enveloping his flesh, Richard couldn’t banish the cold. It clung to his bones, resurrecting memories of Rowena, and the uncharacteristic loss of control he’d experienced in the garden.   

Resting his head against the rim of the tub, he let his eyes skim over the room.  Sunlight puddled through the windows, soaking the floor in scarlet and gold. One of the servants had left the window ajar, permitting the whispering intrusion of a scented breeze.  Richard shivered, sinking lower beneath the water.  Steam fondled his face with vaporous breath as heat from the tub  enveloped him.  The edges of his long hair trailed in the water, buoyed and weightless.   

Below, the nobles would be gathering, ready to feast, drink, and share war stories.   In a few days, games of chance and skill would commence on the castle grounds, along with festivities geared toward frivolity and merry-making.  On any other occasion Richard would have enjoyed the Mayfest.  Now he only wanted it to end.  He ached to return to Covington Cross and a life with some semblance of order. 

Groaning, he dragged himself from the tub, shivering as the water dripped from his naked flesh.  He dried hurriedly, then wrapped himself in a robe, pausing to sit on the edge of the bed.  Belatedly, he noticed the veins running on the underside of his forearms.  His flesh was paler than usual, almost sickly in appearance, the veins, dark blue by contrast.  Concerned, he turned his arms over.  His hands were fine, the rest of his skin normal in hue.  Deciding the abnormality was nothing to be concerned about, Richard shoved from the bed and gathered his clothing.   

He dressed slowly, taking his time with the well-tailored tunic and pants.  Hues of walnut and forest green blended in the garments, enhancing the intensity of his eyes, the rich highlights of his hair.  His sword belt followed, familiar and comforting, as the weight of the weapon settled against his hip.  His acceptance in the Great Hall was bound to be anything but cordial, but hopefully would not result in swordplay. 

Drawing a breath, Richard decided there was little to be gained by remaining in his room.  Setting his face in a bored, placid mask, he headed downstairs and made his way among the other guests. 

+++++ 

Sir Thomas felt a hush fall over the room the moment his son entered.  Conversation dwindled,  then stilled, as hostile, narrowed eyes turned toward Richard.  Thomas had to admire the younger man’s audacity as he sauntered through the crowd, unfazed by the bevy of bold stares.  Claiming a flagon of wine from a serving wench, Richard stopped to examine a platter of venison.  Removing his knife, he speared a piece of meat, then took a seat at the main table.  Gradually the din of conversation resumed.   

Thomas found he’d been unobtrusively holding his breath.  He knew he needed to play the role of outraged father, but looking at his son, he recognized subtle signs of fatigue.  Richard was all poise and polished arrogance on the outside, but Thomas could see beyond the facade to the heavy toll the masquerade exacted.   

Unaware he was scowling, he cleared his throat grumpily.  At his side, Lady Elizabeth Leland, placed a comforting hand on his arm.  “Don’t make a scene, Thomas,” she pleaded.  Unlike the other night, when dinner was a formal sit-down affair, tonight’s repast invited guests to mingle freely, visiting any number of serving stations scattered throughout the hall.  Thomas and Elizabeth lingered near the open fireplace, sharing wine with Lord Brandleford and Armus. 

“I’ll ask him to leave, if that’s your wish, Thomas,” Brandleford said directly. 

Coming to his senses, Thomas shook his head.  Whatever his inner thoughts, he’d apparently managed to project a sufficient aura of belligerence.  “Of course not, Stanton.  Richard and I can peacefully co-exist for the remainder of this Mayfest, even if he is a disgrace.” 

Elizabeth blanched.  “Thomas, you don’t mean that.” 

“Every word of it,” the Lord of Covington Cross snapped.  “Elizabeth, you heard what the boy said to me.  How can you question the legitimacy of my feelings after the other night?” 

“Perhaps this isn’t the best time to discuss it,” Armus interjected. 

“He’s right,” Brandleford agreed, hoping to maintain peace.  “Ignore the boy, Thomas.  Have more wine.  Enjoy the guests.”  Smiling brightly, he fanned his arm to encompass the room.  “These are your friends as well as mine.  There isn’t a person here who doesn’t sympathize with your situation, but it would be unseemly to draw attention to it now.  Especially with so many fair and gracious ladies present.”  Brandleford turned his smile solely on Elizabeth. 

She inclined her head at the compliment, but recognized the fawning praise for the ploy it was.  Still, it made Thomas grumble in agreement, his manner as dark as his face.  Recognizing the need for distance, Armus caught his father’s arm and steered him into the room.  Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before taking her leave of Brandleford, and moving to Richard’s side. 

Glancing up from his plate, he eyed her suspiciously.  The seats around him were empty.  “T’were I you, I’d think twice about being seen with me, Lady Elizabeth.” 

“I rather fancy a scandal now and again,” she returned dryly.  When Richard failed to comment she sat across from him.  Ignoring her, he continued to eat, jabbing the venison with his knife, then snatching the meat from the tip of the blade.  It occurred to her that he was being deliberately rude, something she’d never known him to do.  “You’re worse at play-acting then your father, Richard,” she informed him quietly. 

The insinuation produced the expected response.  Startled, Richard raised his head, a brief,  unguarded look passing through his eyes.  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said flatly. 

“I mean you can do all the posturing and strutting you want, but I know you too well.  You’re hotheaded and willful, but you love your father to a fault.  The two of you may argue and bicker, but you’d defend each other to the death.  Whatever this little charade is, you’ve chosen to enact, I hope it’s worth the discomfort it’s causing.” 

Richard stilled.  His eyes darted to the side, seeking eavesdroppers.  As before, the seats around him were vacant, Brandleford’s guests treating him like a plague-victim.  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said tightly. 

Elizabeth examined the thick braid of her hair, effectively dismissing him.  “And you are a poor liar.” 

Richard drew back.  “Lady Elizabeth—” 

“I don’t want to know what you’re doing,” she said quickly, quietly.  “But I can tell your father’s worried.  He may have fooled Brandleford and Armus, but women are more intuitive.  He’s worried for you.” 

“He’s angry at me, or have you forgotten that?” 

“As you wish, Richard.”  Deciding the conversation was futile, Lady Elizabeth readied to stand.   

“Wait a moment.”  Richard lowered his head, pretending interest in his wine.  To the casual observer it looked simply that his rudeness extended to women.  “There’s something else,” he said in a subdued voice, keeping his eyes downcast.  “A guest of Brandleford’s.  A woman named Rowena.   Do you know her, Lady Elizabeth?  Anything about her?” 

Disturbed by the query, Elizabeth tilted her head.  She heard anxiety in Richard’s voice, coupled with something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.  “I don’t recall meeting her.”  Pausing, she studied his lowered lashes, the faint smudge of shadow beneath his eyes.  “Is it important?” 

“Perhaps.”  Richard’s eyes came up, green and luminous in the gilded glow of firelight.  He shivered.  “If you hear anything—”  Someone bumped into his shoulder, jostling his arm. Richard lurched forward, sloshing wine onto the table.  Immediately, a veil fell over his face.  His eyes grew slitted and cat-like as he swung around to confront the culprit.  “You clumsy, hoof-footed imbecile!” 

The transgressor, a tow-headed youth near his own age, smiled snidely.  “If you don’t like the company, you can always leave, worm-filth.” 

Richard rose to his feet, every nerve in his body strung for aggression.  From the corner of his eye, he saw his father move to the forefront of the crowd.  To his credit, Sir Thomas did not betray his feelings, but mutely watched the exchange, his face impassive.  The other man—Richard vaguely recalled hearing him addressed as Radcliffe—placed his hands on his hips, squaring his shoulders defiantly.  

Richard smiled thinly, his grin mocking and tart.  “If I left, who would point out your many inadequacies?”  His eyes dipped in a pointed glance for Radcliffe’s blade.  “Starting with that ridiculous toothpick you call a sword.  Didn’t I trounce you in a gaming match at Harvest Field in South Banbury?” 

Radcliffe purpled.  His face mottled with color, flushing white, then scarlet, then settling into livid plum.  Hissing like a enraged serpent, he groped for his blade.  Richard’s actions were sharper, honed with quick-silver edges and liquid speed.  The moment Radcliffe’s fingers flinched in the direction of his scabbard, Richard freed his own sword, knocking his opponent’s weapon aside. The crowd, which had gathered, hoping to see him humiliated, now hovered in tight-lipped silence.   

Richard tapped his blade beneath Radcliffe’s chin, sending a deeper stain of crimson rushing to the mortified youth’s cheeks.  “As I said—” Richard paused, waiting while the other squirmed.   “—inadequate.”  

Sheathing his sword, he turned his back and walked from the room.  Tension and exhilaration ran high in his body as he moved into the corridor.  Another day and somehow he’d miraculously survived a pummeling from men eager to tear him in half.  Walking blindly, he strode down the corridor, needing to put distance between himself and the Great Hall.  Seeking seclusion, he entered the armory where only a handful of candles had been lit to hold the night-time shadows at bay. Comfortable in the darkness, Richard stiff-armed the wall, bending his head as coiled tension flowed from his muscles. 

There was no sound.  Only the abrasive feel of a calloused hand, roughly covering his mouth.  Richard jerked upright, and was immediately wrenched backward.  His captor pulled, tugging him sharply against his own massive body.  Richard felt muscle and sinew; the coarse studding of metal and leather against his back.  The hand on his mouth was merciless, pressing silent his angry  protests.  A powerful arm folded over his ribs, pinning his arms to his side in a crushing grip. 

“Be still,” an angry voice hissed in his ear.  The man behind him was taller and broader, his voice pitched in a low rumble.  Because there was little else he could do, Richard complied.  His head was jerked backward, drawing his ear closer to the man’s lips.  “Your father treats you no better than a table-servant,” the throaty voice whispered.  “His lands and titles will pass to your brother Armus, and you’ll be left with nothing, after years of knock-kneed subservience.”  The hand pulled sharply, and Richard grunted, feeling the strain on his neck.  “Is that what you want, Richard Grey—to be a lapdog in your brother’s castle?” 

Allowed minute freedom, Richard shook his head.  His captor chuckled, soft and low. The scent of sour wine wafted past Richard’s nose.  “It’s good you feel that way.”  The restrictive grip suddenly loosened, allowing Richard room to breathe.  The work-roughened hand eased from his mouth, tightening instead on his neck, warning him still.  Though allowed to speak, he wasn’t permitted to turn his head. 

“What do you want?” he demanded. 

“It’s what you want,” the man countered.  “Wealth and position in your own right.” 

“That’s impossible.” 

 “I wouldn’t offer it otherwise,” the voice countered sharply.  “There’s vaulted status for a man with little conscience, but I’m not sure you fit that description.” 

Richard snorted, certain now, it was Woodward who restrained him.  “What would you have me do, to prove it?” 

A lengthy silence followed.  Richard swallowed when he felt the hand on his neck tighten marginally.  “There is something,” the man said slowly.  Leaning forward he whispered the directive in Richard’s ear. 

+++++   

Freed after the encounter in the armory, Richard headed to the upper level of the castle, and his chambers.  Most of Brandleford’s guests still lingered in the Great Hall, a fact easily confirmed by the mesh of voices drifting into the corridor.  Though his adrenalin level was high, Richard thought it wisest to avoid further contact for the evening.  Even the rendevous he had planned with Sir Thomas, at the stable, would have to wait.  In all likelihood, Woodward would be watching—especially after giving Richard a heinous task to fulfill.

The thought of that command left him uncertain how to proceed.  Unable to carry through on the directive, he had to find a means of negating it without appearing to fail.  He no longer questioned the identity of the man in the armory.  Even in the darkness he’d been observant enough to notice a three-inch scar on the back of the man’s left hand.  A scar, in exact dimension to one Woodward bore below the knuckles.  Though originally the one to bait the trap, Richard felt as though the roles had shifted and he’d become the prey. 

Deeming it wisest to retire, he gratefully sought the sanctuary of his room, moving into the dimly lit chamber with a sense of relief.  As he neared the bed, an unpleasant displacement rippled the air.  Turning, Richard caught the faint reek of decay.  His heart lurched in his chest as an insubstantial form moved from the shadows, into a cone of light.   

“Rowena.”  Though it didn’t surprise him to find her his room, her presence made him uneasy.  “How did you get in here?”  

She was still wearing the same blue gown from the day before, but it appeared faded and aged, as though surviving many seasons rather than a span of hours.  Her hair was wild and tangled, snagged with bits of bracken.  It flowed past her shoulders, pale as winter wheat, framing her oval face like a tattered veil.   

“What happened to you?”  Richard asked in alarm.  He raised his hand to touch her, then flinched away at the heated warmth of her skin.  Her flesh felt unnatural, as though it had soaked up heat with impossible alacrity.  Just as quickly, the abnormality faded and his fingers brushed cool white flesh, smooth as silk.  Disturbed, he wet his lips.  “What are you doing here?” 

Absently, Rowena brushed the snarled hair from her eyes, unconcerned by his distress.  Moving closer, she touched him lightly on the arm, scraping her fingers upward, until her hand settled on his shoulder.  Undone by the touch, Richard shuddered. 

“I came to see you,” she said simply.  “I’ve missed you.” 

Briefly he closed his eyes, hoping to deny the feelings she stirred.  A sense of hot urgency spread through his groin, forcing him to stifle a groan.  Images of their night together assaulted him with relentless intensity.  Breath quickening, he took a step backward.  A shred of rational thought made him tense. “I don’t know what you’ve done to me, but it can’t continue.” 

She appeared wounded.  “I’ve done nothing, Richard.  Don’t you enjoy what I have to offer?” 

Carnal desire returned, stronger this time.  The very touch of her eyes made his mouth go dry.  He struggled for some fragment of sanity.  “I know nothing about you, except your name.” 

“What does it matter?”  Stepping nearer, she sent his thoughts fluttering like ribbons from a maypole.  No woman in her right mind would give herself so freely to a virtual stranger, yet she carried little inhibition.  He might have enjoyed that recklessness, were it not for the doubts her behavior induced. 

“Rowena—” Still struggling for sanity, Richard gripped her shoulders.  His intention had been to hold her at arm’s length, but the feel of supple flesh beneath his fingertips, crumbled the last of his  resistance.  Tugging her forward, he kissed her urgently, driven by a need he didn’t understand.  She arched against him, both willing companion and beguiling nymph.  Before he knew what he was doing, he’d carried her to the bed, surrendering the role of controller for controlled.   

Blinded to everything but the need to possess her, Richard surrendered to the carnal urges driving his body.  She was satin and ice—a sylph-like creature, disturbingly lecherous, rather than loving.  Richard panted, barely rational, as their lovemaking exhausted itself in the early hours of morning.  Groaning, he rolled away from her, half-sick with what he’d done.  Groping for the bed linens, he tugged them over his naked body, scrunching his eyes closed.  Trembling, he tried to banish the sudden descent of frigid air.  Behind him, he heard the creak of the bed as Rowena stood. 

Richard swallowed with difficulty, his tongue swollen.  “What have you done to me?” 

“Given what you desired; taken what I require.” 

 “I desired nothing.  You’ve taken unfairly.” 

Smiling softly, Rowena gazed down on him.  “I need to be warm, Richard, and your flesh has warmth to spare.”  Extending her hand, she moved to touch him, but he jerked away, shoving from the bed.   

Wrapping the bedsheet about his waist, Richard bent to gather his clothes. “I want nothing further to do with you, Rowena.  Get out of my room.”  Cold sweat lingered on his neck and brow, coaxing his snarled hair into tighter curls.  The air was plaited with frost, inciting supernatural tremors in his body.  Disbelieving, he dragged a hand over his face.  “This isn’t natural.  Nothing about it is natural.”  Pausing, he glared.  “You’re not bloody natural.  I don’t know what you are—demon, witch or spirit—but I’ll feed your lust no longer.” 

Denying nothing, she cocked her head.  “Find my locket.” 

Startled, Richard stared.  “Your locket?” 

“My husband gave it to me, and I will not leave this realm without it.” 

Appalled, Richard sat on the bed.  “Husband?”  The floor lurched beneath him, threatening to swallow him in a bottomless pit.  Groaning, he dropped his head into his hands. “You’re married?”  When silence was his only answer, he raised his eyes to find the room empty.  In a matter of mere seconds she had vanished.  Bewildered, Richard glanced behind him. She hadn’t had sufficient time to depart by the door, and he certainly would have heard it open.   Demon, witch or spirit.  

I will not leave this realm, she had said. 

Swallowing uneasily, he stared at the blue veins in his arms, the ivory-white flesh of his abominably cold skin.   

 . . . this realm . . . 

What manner of creature would say such a thing?  Briefly, he recalled the image of a woman with spider-webbed hair and fish-gray lips; the feel of cold hands on his body.  He remembered the heavy taint of decay each time Rowena was present.  Breathing unevenly, Richard dragged a nervous hand across the back of his neck.  He swore softly, fervently wishing the friar had come to Candlemyre Manor.  Matters of the supernatural were beyond his realm of understanding. 

Agitated, he pushed from the bed.  His stomach roiled dangerously as the events of the last few hours caught up with him.  She’d needed warmth.  She’d as much as said that.  If he’d refused her, might she have withered into something insubstantial—a spectral being native to the nether regions?  Surely he was deranged to even consider the possibility. 

Tossing the bedsheet aside, Richard pulled on his breeches.  The impossible thoughts pinging through his mind, made him itch to wash away her stain, but taking a bath twice in one day was ludicrous.  The servants would balk, and word would filter back to the nobles.  Tugging on his boots, he glanced out the window, noting the heavy curtain of darkness outside.   It would likely be cold, and he was already freezing.  He shrugged into his tunic, forsaking both belt and jerkin, then gathered his cloak from a nearby chair.                                                                              

By the time he made it outside, he was breathing heavily, certain she had tainted him with some unmentionable disease.  Leaving the castle grounds, he jogged down an adjacent slope, intent on reaching a mid-sized lake on the border of Candlemyre.  Night-blackened and still, the water was unreflective, cut like a gaping hole in the darkness. 

Richard stripped beneath the sagging umbrella of a grizzled willow.  Teeth chattering, he plunged into the lake, savoring the cold shock that drove all thought of Rowena from his mind.  Ducking beneath the surface, he felt icy water close over his head.  Emerging, he sputtered, as trickling beads of moisture dripped from the ends of his soaked hair.  Sweeping the bangs straight back from his forehead, he drew a tremulous breath.  From the corner of his eye, he detected a flicker of movement beneath the tree cover on the bank.  A moment later, a heavy-handed breeze rippled  branches and leaves, and he realized the wind was at fault for the distortion.  Relaxing, he lingered in the lake, until the cold touch of enveloping water became a shiver-inducing affliction.  

Withdrawing, Richard dressed quickly, unmindful of the dampness soaking his clothes; the biting touch of cool air against his wet hair.  The memory of Rowena’s body twined with his, faded beneath the cleansing kiss of the lake.  Desiring the warmth and security of Candlemyre, Richard headed back to the castle.  Following a narrow footpath through a copse of bordering trees, he moved surefooted through the velvety darkness. 

Once again, a sense of movement came behind him, this time accompanied by the snap of a twig.  Certain Woodward had set a lackey to follow him, Richard slipped from the path, into the trees. Though he had no sword or knife, he crouched behind the sheltering trunk of an oak, waiting for the clumsy pursuer to draw abreast.  Within moments, a silhouette appeared. 

Launching himself from his hiding place, Richard grappled the intruder about the waist, bearing the light burden to the ground.  A startled squawk made him jerk unexpectedly as he felt soft flesh beneath him.  Before he could recover, a rolled fist pounded against his shoulder. 

“Oaf!  Get off of me!” 

Water from his wet hair, dripping into his eyes, Richard blinked.  “Penelope?” 

“Well it isn’t anyone you’re used to pawing,” a perturbed voice snapped.  Sprawled beneath him, his sixteen-year-old tormentor, glared.  “The next time you want to go swimming in the nude, I suggest you pick a different lake.” 

Appalled, Richard drew back.  “You saw?”

 “An eyeful,” she assured suggestively.  Moving free of him, Penelope stood, methodically brushing clinging bits of grass and dirt from her clothing.  Her sun-gold hair was unbound, flowing to her waist, in wave upon wave of shimmering silk.  She wore a white sleeping gown and a simple cloak of black, trimmed in forest green. 

Richard swallowed, thinking of Rowena.  “What are you doing out here?” he demanded.  “Do you know what time it is?” 

“You’re not my keeper, Richard Grey.” 

“Well obviously someone should be.” 

Straightening, Penelope tossed her hair.  Judging by her flippant manner, she’d obviously not forgiven him for his earlier rudeness.  Hands on hips, she jutted her chin defiantly.  “Someone is.” 

Richard stared, uncomprehending.  When she smiled at him smugly, he abruptly understood what she was doing in the darkness so far from the castle.  With a flush of anger, he realized her clothing was rumpled, not from their own encounter, but a previous one.  “You were meeting someone!  You little snippet—you were here for a late-night rendevous.” 

Rolling her eyes, Penelope started walking.  Infuriated, Richard fell in at her side.  “You make it sound licentious,” she told him, clearly enjoying his frustration.  “I am sixteen, you know.” 

“You’re a child.”  

“Radcliffe doesn’t think so.” 

Richard fumed.  Though he was freezing, standing in the night-frigid air, water dripping from his hair, anger kept him focused.  A surge of protective indignation raced through him as he glared at Penelope.  With her hair unbound, her sleeping gown open at the throat, she was more than a trifle bewitching.  The thought of Radcliffe kissing her, possibly touching her, made him bristle with rage.  “I trounced that upstart in South Banbury,” he retorted, biting off the words in white-knuckled anger.  “He’s an ego-inflated popinjay with a weakness for young girls.  I don’t want to see you hurt.” 

 “Ha!”  Tugging free, hair fanning in a luxurious arc, Penelope whirled and stalked away.  Despite her petite build, she set a clipped pace up the tree-lined path.   

Richard sprinted to catch up, easily matching her stride.  “What does that mean?” he demanded. 

Holding her skirts aloft, Penelope kept her eyes straight ahead.  “It means you’re jealous, because I’ve decided you’re no longer worth the effort.” 

“Jealous?”  Though Richard scoffed, inwardly he cringed.  Was it possible to be plagued by jealousy for a girl who’d annoyed him all his life?  “Don’t be ludicrous, Pen.  I just don’t want to see you hurt.  There’s nothing ethical about, Radcliffe.  If I had my guess, I’d say you’re only doing this because you want to get back at me.” 

Choking short laughter, Penelope stopped suddenly and faced him.  “You really are a conceited ass.  Do you think the whole world revolves around you, Richard Grey?”  Witch-light blazed in her eyes as she stared up at him.  Though her head barely reached the top of his shoulder, her presence was overpowering.   

Still hoping to banish the stain of Rowena, Richard found himself enthralled by Penelope’s forthrightness.  Moonlight dappled her face, enhancing her elfin-like features with a diaphanous veil.  For the first time in his life, Richard looked on her with the eyes of a man and found himself wanting.  Before he could shrug free of the spontaneity, he caught her about the wrist, tugging her close.  Slipping a hand into the thick curtain of her hair, he cradled the back of her head, pressing his mouth to hers.

She was heated warmth and clover-washed summer, all the whiteness and light that Rowena was not.  Gasping, she parted her lips, inviting him to taste the blossom-sweet nectar of innocence and youth.  Richard tugged her closer, surprised by the tender reaction her naivety induced in his body.  Just as abruptly, the kiss ended. 

Penelope wrenched free, her face flushing with rage.  “How dare you.”  Her fingers lashed across his cheek in a stinging slap. “Do you think you can just treat me like a common strumpet?”   

Confusion doused by ire, Richard seethed.  “I’m not the one who met some snotty, weasel-faced peacock in the trees.” 

Pressing her lips together, Penelope tilted her head, suddenly haughty.  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Richard.  With your hair wet, mink-faced is a better description.  And I really have to say, after all those years of waiting—you kiss like a . . . a . . .duckling.” 

Whirling, she stalked up the path.  Richard stared after her.  “A duckling?  What the hell does that mean?”  A newly-birthed breeze blew through his wet hair and he shivered.  “Pen!”  She ignored him.  Richard ground his teeth together.  The girl was impossible—completely, utterly, ridiculously impossible.  “Penelope!”   

Disappearing around a bend, she vanished from sight.  Richard bent his head, rubbing at his temples.  “Bloody hell.”  He couldn’t think straight anymore.  Between the cold, Rowena, Penelope and Woodward, his sanity teetered on the edge of collapse.  He really needed to speak with someone—Armus or his father—but his role as upstart and loner made that impossible.  Worse, Woodward had given him a task he couldn’t possibly fulfill. 

Grimly, Richard hiked up the path. 

By tomorrow eve, he’d been instructed to kill Radcliffe. 

+++++   

Hurrying into her room, Penelope closed the door.  She was shaking, trembling with humiliation, rage, and . . . and . . .  

Frustrated, she plopped to a seat on the edge of her bed.  She didn’t want to think about the horrible tangle of feelings Richard had awakened with his kiss.  She could still feel the press of his cold lips on hers. His unusual night-time swim, coupled with the frigid air, had left his skin icy and chill.  Yet when he’d kissed her, she’d felt only sun-soaked warmth, and a delicious spiral of heat deep in her belly.  His kiss, coupled with the heavenly feel of his arms wrapped about her, had taken her breath away.  She’d waited so long for that moment, she would have willingly lingered for an eternity.  But his boldness, and cocky assurance that she’d respond to his touch had infuriated her.  She was a fool to think she’d be anything more than a conquest on his well-notched belt.  Thus she’d responded with anger and indignation, while secretly harboring tears. The kiss had obviously meant nothing to him, being just another dalliance in a long line of loveplay. 

Worse still, was what had happened with Radcliffe only moments before.  Upset over the way Richard had treated her when she’d come upon him exiting the garden, earlier that day, Penelope had responded to Radcliffe’s advances in the Great Hall.  Knowing how much Richard detested the man, she’d pegged him as the perfect means of exacting vengeance on the curly-haired object of her infatuation. 

They’d met secretly, far from the prying eyes of the castle.  While Penelope had envisioned stealing a few kisses with the tow-headed Radcliffe, he had far less noble ambitions in mind.  She’d ended up bruising his face as she fended him off.  When he’d slipped, falling down a short incline, she’d used the opportunity to flee.  A short distance away, she’d discovered Richard arriving at the lake. 

Slipping into the trees, she’d watched as he’d stripped off his clothes and dove into the lake.  Flushing to think of it, she could easily recall the sight of his naked flesh in the darkness, dusted with slivers of moonlight and contouring shadow.  His body was well-defined and perfectly sculpted.  A fact she’d often entertained in fantasy, but was now utterly certain of.  Lingering until he’d dressed and departed, she’d eventually followed him up the path. 

Which had led to their own encounter and her current frustrations.  She despised him.  She adored him.  She wanted the feel of his lips on hers again, full of sweet passion and promises.  She wanted something she knew Richard Grey was never likely to give.  

She wanted forever. 

Curling up on her bed, Penelope tugged the blankets close to her shoulders, and contented herself with a rare moment of tears. 

+++++ 

Richard dragged himself awake, feeling more abused then he had the day before.  The unnatural whiteness of his forearms had spread to his wrists and shoulders.  Concerned by the unhealthy pallor, he examined himself in the light.  It was as though the pigmentation had been sucked from his skin, leaving his flesh with the unwholesome appearance of a cadaver.  Rubbing at his eyes, he relived the events of the previous night. 

Rowena was responsible.   

He didn’t understand how, but was certain the enigmatic woman was at fault for the ailment.  Perhaps she’d drugged him when he was unaware.  He only knew he had to end any further association with her, not only for his physical well-being, but also his sanity.   

Groaning at the protesting aches of his body, he dressed slowly, selecting black breeches and boots, with a gray leather jerkin and white undertunic.  Combing his rumpled curls into place, Richard meandered downstairs into the Great Hall. 

Immediately upon entrance, he knew something was wrong.  Groups of nobles stood in tight little circles, whispering among themselves.  A brittle pall hung over the chamber, pudding-thick and near-tangible.  All hint of festivity had been struck from the air, replaced by somberness so severe, Richard felt it slither over his skin, with the cold-bellied caress of a snake.  As he entered, guarded glances were cast in his direction.   

A short distance away, his father conversed quietly with Armus and Lady Elizabeth.  Though Richard longed to approach them, contact with Sir Thomas was impossible.  Hesitating inside the doorway, he bumped shoulders with Woodward. 

The man glared as though offended, but his voice, pitched low, was intimately pleased.  “You’re fast boy,” he muttered.  “I don’t know how you got the Brandleford girl to vouch for you, but that’s a stroke of genius.” 

Richard wet his lips.  “Sir Gervase?” 

The other snorted.  “Don’t play coy.  You know it was me in the armory.   And you’ve proved your worth.”  Woodward’s lips curled with the slightest praise.  “We’ll talk again.” 

Disquieted by her anxiety, Richard gave a brief nod.  Though her manner reeked of stiff protocol, Richard didn’t think that formality had anything to do with what had transpired between them the previous night. “Pen, what’s going on?” he demanded as they moved into the corridor. 

Her expression remained rigid.  “Not here,” she said in a tight voice.  It was only when they’d moved further away, into a rarely used alcove, that Penelope relaxed.  Exhaling, she sagged against the wall, pretense and bravery abandoning her.  “It’s horrible,” she muttered. 

Concerned, Richard gripped her elbow.  “What is?” 

Penelope’s eyes rounded on his, wide and doe-like.  She was clearly terrified.  “Radcliffe.  Richard, I think I killed him.” 

He balked.  Abruptly Woodward’s congratulatory praise made sense.  The bleak, staring eyes of the nobles, gazing on him with masked suspicion, settled with a semblance of purpose. Drawing Penelope down on a small, upholstered bench, Richard sat beside her.  In the narrow, tiny space, their knees bumped.  Beneath his fingertips, he could feel the girl trembling. 

“Penelope, tell me what’s happened.  From the beginning.” 

With a hesitant nod, she wet her lips.  “Y-yesterday, I was angry at you,” Her lashes dipped as she admitted the truth.  “I wanted to get back at you, for the way you treated me—for the way you’ve always treated my feelings . . .” 

He scowled, unsettled by the ugly, accusation.  It was true he’d been short, even callous, but he’d never been particularly endearing.  It was part of the game they played.  Grimacing, he realized her feelings might have altered as she’d grown older.  An infatuated child could toss aside a barbed remark, but a woman in love was likely to wound.  

Silently cursing, he compared himself to dirt. 

“When Radcliffe made an advance at me, I reciprocated,” Penelope continued.  “It seemed the ideal way to get back at you, knowing how much you despised him.  You see—” Tossing her braided hair, she strived for haughty disregard, “—other men do find me attractive.”  

Sighing, Richard took her hand.  “Pen, I never said—” 

 “So I agreed to meet him,” Penelope continued sharply, as though he hadn’t interrupted.  Growing uncomfortable, she shifted on the bench, pulling her fingers free.  “But . . . he was far from gentlemanly . . .”  Straightening her back, she folded her hands in her lap, trying not to show how much the admission hurt, “ . . . and I ended up having to fend him off.” 

Richard tensed, muttering low under his breath. 

“He didn’t put up much of a fight once I hit him.  He lost his footing and slipped down a bank, so I ran.  That’s when I saw you.” Pausing awkwardly, she glanced at him through slitted lashes, “At the lake.” 

Richard nodded, not wanting to dwell on exactly what she had seen.  “Go on.” 

“I came back to the castle after you and I quarreled, and spent the remainder of the night in my chambers.  Sometime early this morning, one of our grooms found Radcliffe, in the area where he and I met.”  Turning sideways, Penelope faced him.  “They said his head was bashed in.  Don’t you see, Richard—he must have struck his head when he slipped down that bank.”  Her eyes threatened sudden tears.  “I killed him.” 

“No,” Richard said quickly, disconcerted more by her tears, then the news.  “You don’t know that.” 

“What other explanation can there be?” 

Richard groped for words of reassurance.  “Numerous ones, Pen.  Radcliffe was not well-liked.”  Remembering Woodward’s comment about Brandleford’s daughter vouching for him, Richard cast her an arch glance.  “How am I involved in this?” 

“I told my father we spent the night together.” 

“You did what?”  Appalled, Richard surged to his feet. 

“Not like that,” Penelope said quickly.  “I told him we spent the evening talking, well into the dawn, and that afterwards we both retired to our chambers.  That gives us both an alibi—me because I was there, and you, because you are the most likely candidate to commit murder.” 

Realizing what she said was true, Richard raked nervous fingers through his hair.  

“You didn’t murder him, did you Richard?” 

Whirling on his heel, Richard glared.  “Shades and damnation, Pen, how can you ask such an thing?” 

Chastised, she nevertheless bristled.  “Well you haven’t exactly been yourself lately.  Look how you’ve treated your father.”  

“Woodward,” Richard muttered, as that truth sank deeper.  “Woodward thinks I killed him.”

 “What did you say?” 

“Nothing.”  Clearing his throat, Richard concentrated on Penelope.  Stepping to her side, he took her hand and tugged her to her feet.  “We’ll stick with your story.  In the meantime, I’ll do a little investigating on my own.  If Radcliffe did hit his head, it was an accident, Penelope, nothing more.  You’re not responsible.” 

“But I pushed him.”

“You were defending yourself.”  Prompted by irritation, his lips thinned in a white line.  The thought of Radcliffe pawing her, kindled a flare of anger.  He felt suddenly protective of her.  He wanted to shelter her, to guard her . . . to feel the exquisite blush of her soft lips against his, and solely his.  “You should go back to the other guests,” he managed with difficulty. 

Bleakly, she nodded.  As she started from the alcove, Richard caught her hand. 

“Pen.  I have to ask you something.”    

Puzzled, she waited. 

Richard stepped nearer, fearing the mention of a woman’s name might incite her wrath.  “I need to know about one of your father’s guests . . . a woman named Rowena.  She would be a little older than Armus, with very pale blonde hair.” 

An annoyed furrow darkened Penelope’s smooth brow.  “Richard, I don’t think it’s polite to make sport at a time like this.” 

Baffled, he spread his hands.  “What sport?  I only asked about Rowena.” 

“The woman you described is Gervase Woodward’s wife,”  Penelope returned tightly.  “At least she was. Two years ago during the Harvest Festival, she died in our garden.”  Uncomfortable, Penelope lifted her chin.  “It’s why we don’t use it any longer.  It’s been blighted ever since.” 

“She’s dead?”  Richard felt the blood drain from his face.  “Penelope—” Urgently, he gripped her arm.  His mind tripped over the absurd possibilities, all rapidly coalescing into bone-jarring truth. Only last night, he’d toyed with the thought of supernatural visitations, but hadn’t truly believed such a creature could exist.  He’d made love to Rowena—not once, but twice.  Hot, passionate, animalistic love.  A thoroughly reckless abandon that left him shuddering with memory. “There . . . there has to be a mistake,” he said weakly. 

Concerned by his sickly pallor, Penelope touched his arm.  “Richard, you’re trembling.  What’s wrong?” 

 “I—” He couldn’t breathe.  The air grew hot and suffocating, burning his lungs with dragon-fire.  Sweat broke out on his neck and brow.  Absently, he threaded his fingers through his hair, pacing nervously in the cramped confines.  “Pen, that’s just not possible.”  His voice was desperate, even plaintive.  As the awful truth sank deeper, he relived the fringe images buried in his mind—ghastly perceptions of an apparition beyond the grave.   

A wraith. 

Richard shuddered.  Her hair wasn’t blonde, but spider-web white, sticky and tacky with grime.  The lips he’d thought soft, were in actuality, rotted and diseased.  Lips that had covered his mouth, and roamed intimately over his body, beckoning him to new heights of passion.  The cold of her flesh was the cold of the crypt—an eternal chill she could never banish without robbing the living of warmth.   

And he had given freely. 

Richard gagged, choking back bile.  Still trembling, he sank to a seat on the bench, burying his face in his hands. 

“Richard?”  Alarmed, Penelope bent over him. 

“Go!” he choked, his voice muffled by his hands.  “I’ll be fine, Pen.  Please, just go.”  He couldn’t bear to look at her.  She was innocence and sunlight, unsoiled by the darkness he courted daily.  Inwardly chafing, he realized his own amoral bed-hoping was at fault.  If he’d been touched by a denizen of the Netherworld, would he ever be whole again?   

At the whispering, hesitant retreat of Penelope’s footsteps, Richard raised his head. Alone in the alcove, he listened to the labored hiss of his breath, the fearful thud of his heart, wondering when Rowena would come again. 

++++ 

Darkness swaddled the hillsides in a thick, inky pall.  Moving stealthily through the layered blackness, Richard headed for the stable.  Once again, heavy cloud-cover kept moonlight to a minimum, aiding him in his quest for secrecy.  Night-blooming flowers and plump berries, perfumed the air with a sweet bouquet, almost sickly, for their honied aroma. As he neared the stable, the cloying odor faded beneath the redolence of animal and straw. 

Anxious, he moved beneath the overhang.  “Father?” 

“Here,” a blessedly familiar voice intoned at his ear. 

Richard flinched, unprepared for the suddenness of Sir Thomas’s appearance.  Exhaling, he dragged nervous fingers over his face.   

Sensing his tightly-wound anxiety, Thomas scowled.  “What’s happened?” 

 “Woodward’s approached me,” Richard said quickly.  Desiring safety, he moved deeper into the thatched structure, thankful for the thick shadows.  Tonight he wasn’t adept enough to mask the troubled emotion in his eyes. 

“Are you sure it was Woodward?”  Thomas persisted, at his back. 

“Positive.”  Richard half-turned glancing over his shoulder.  “He hasn’t spoken to me of treason, but he’s implied an opportunity for wealth and position.” 

Disturbed, Thomas drew nearer.  “A trifle too easy.  I don’t like it.” 

“It wasn’t as easy as you think,” Richard returned. flatly.  Distractedly, he rubbed his temple, trying to unseat an ache.  The pain had been with him most of the day, lodged just off the corner of his eye.  He’d brought it on himself, asking discreet questions about Rowena.  There were still a few of Brandleford’s guests willing to speak with him, and their tongues loosened readily enough with the right amount of wine.  “He set me a task to fulfill, as a test of loyalty.” 

“Well?”  Thomas demanded. 

Facing his father, Richard met his eyes directly.  “I was to kill Radcliffe.” 

“You were to . . .”  Thomas’s words trailed away as he studied his son’s youthful face.  There were times Richard’s features were almost angelic, but they had sharpened now, challenging rather than ethereal.  For all his willfulness and bristling arrogance, Thomas knew he was incapable of murder.  “Do you know what happened to Radcliffe?”  he asked carefully. 

Drawing a breath, Richard relaxed a fraction.  “No.”  It wasn’t an entire lie.  There was no need to relay Penelope’s involvement. “But I think it’s terribly coincidental he died so conveniently.”  Disgruntled, Richard propped a shoulder against the wall.  Plucking a sliver of straw from the ground, he twirled it absently between his fingers.  Head bent, long hair spilling forward to obscure his face, it was impossible to judge his expression.   

“You think someone killed him, hoping to blame you?”  Thomas asked. 

Richard shrugged, not bothering to raise his head.  “I don’t know what to think,” he said quietly.  To Thomas he sounded preoccupied.   

Puffing out his cheeks, the Lord of Covington Cross studied his moody second son.  The change in his demeanor was subtle, but noticeable.  Two days ago Richard had reacted with characteristic nonchalance and confidence. Now he appeared reflective and troubled, lapsing into prickly silence.   

Thomas gripped his shoulder, prompting Richard to raise his head.  “For the moment, Radcliffe’s death is being ruled accidental.  Penelope’s provided you with an alibi, so either way you’re in the clear.  I think the important issue is to force Woodward into action.  The longer we delay, the greater the likelihood of error.”  Pausing, Thomas stared hard at the younger man.  “Richard, you don’t look well.  As much as I might want to, I can’t draw you out now—” 

“You don’t need to.”  Shaking his head, Richard brushed off the other’s concern.  “I’m fine.  I’ve just been . . . distracted.” 

“With what?” 

“It doesn’t matter.”  Straightening, Richard fell easily into a confident facade.  “I’ll approach Woodward tomorrow.  With any luck, we can finalize matters by eventide.” 

Thomas nodded.  “Just be careful.”   

Later, when the older man had slipped into the darkness, Richard waited in the shadows, watching his departing silhouette.  In a few moments he’d leave as well.  Absorbed by thoughts of Woodward, Penelope and Rowena, Richard was unaware of the man lurking nearby.   

Unseen, Frederick Denlark melted into the gloaming, intent on relaying all he had overheard. 

+++++ 

Richard was uncertain why he visited the garden.  It was the last place he wanted to be at night, knowing what he did about Rowena.  Talk around the castle confirmed Penelope’s account that she’d died two years ago.  A trio of drunken nobleman had readily shared the tale, when plied with the right amount wine. 

Visiting during a Harvest Festival, Rowena had wandered into the box garden alone.  Speculation said she was attacked by an outlaw, her neck broken.  Though the culprit was never caught, bounties and rewards were posted.  Sir Gervase retreated to Glenchase where he mourned in private, becoming reclusive for close to a year.  The garden itself withered, as though blighted by Rowena’s death.   Eventually Woodward returned, able to face the castle where his wife had met an untimely demise.  Though her passing was never spoken of in his presence, the events were common knowledge.  

Steeling himself for the reek of decay, Richard cautiously entered the garden.  Trees and hedgerows huddled close on all sides, sketching contorted silhouettes against a soot-black sky.  The wind was fickle and light, almost vocal, as it faerie-danced among creeping vines and neglected bowers.  Beneath his boots, the earth was spongy and soft, yielding to his wary steps. 

Uncertain what he hoped to find, Richard walked to the bench where he’d first encountered Rowena.  The air was acrid and sharp, contaminated with the odor of leaf-mold, and damp, autumn-browned grasses. Crouching beside the wind-pitted bench, Richard ran his fingers lightly over the blistered surface. Encountering nothing of interest, he rummaged through the decaying grass at his feet.  Irregularities riddled the ground—bumps and ragged edges, where small stones and bulging roots, protruded from the soil.  Sitting back on his haunches, Richard stared at the bench.   

A crevasse was worn in one edge—a gaping recession where wind and wear had combined for damage.  In the sheltering darkness, the narrow opening appeared as a sliver of gelatinous black.  Moving onto the bench, Richard turned sideways, slipping his fingers into the hole.  Jagged stone scraped his knuckles as he groped blindly in the limited space.  His fingers encountered bits of bracken and dried, crumbled leaves; particles of twigs and flesh-soft moss. The tight recession allowed his hand no further then the knuckles.  Shifting, he twisted on the bench, striving for better leverage.  Eventually he felt the cold brush of metal against his fingertips. 

Sucking down a breath, Richard reached deeper, ignoring the torn skin on the back of his hand.  Closing his fingers over the foreign object, he pulled it from the hole.  In the limited light of stars,  and sickle moon, he beheld a woman’s locket.     

Rowena’s locket. 

Before he had time to consider the implication, he heard a rustle of sound behind him.  Stuffing the locket into his jerkin, Richard whirled.  Expecting to find Rowena, he was drawn up short by Penelope Brandleford. 

“Pen!”  Richard practically hissed the name.  “What are you doing here?” 

More poised than she’d been earlier that day, Penelope crinkled her pixie-like nose, irritated by his brusqueness.  “This is my garden.  I might ask you the same thing, but I’m sure I already know the answer.   Who is she this time, Richard—kitchen maid or knight’s wife?” 

He stiffened.  “I don’t sleep with married women.” 

Penelope smirked.  “How gallant of you to develop a belated sense of conscience.”                      

Richard exhaled.  Since their original encounter outside the garden, her comments had grown far more barbed.  Less childish then she’d been in the past, Richard found himself struggling to pinpoint his own erratic emotions.  It had been much easier when she’d been an infatuated girl-child, tagging on his heels, with annoying persistency.  Then he’d simply wanted to distance himself.  Now he wasn’t sure if he should reprimand, protect or cherish.   

“This isn’t a good place to linger, Penelope,” he said evenly, choosing to ignore her comment.  In the licorice-laced shadows, her brown eyes glimmered with the reflective glow of starlight.  Raising a hand, she coiled a strand of loose hair behind her ear.  Richard followed the movement, noting how graceful her actions had become.  Though she could still rattle him with crass edges, another part of her was slowly moving toward refinement. 

“Why?” she challenged.  “Because I’m interrupting your love-nest?” 

 “Stop it, Pen.”  Irritated, he strode forward, roughly gripping her arm.  Towering over her, he gazed down on her defiant face, feeling his own restlessness provoked.  “I’m not here to meet anyone.  I just came—” 

“Well?”  she demanded, when he found himself unable to finish.   

Swearing softly, Richard released her.  Turning away, he dragged a hand over the back of his neck.  “You wouldn’t understand.” 

“I understand I might have killed a man, and that nothing I do, think, or say is going to change that.  I understand that I hate this feeling, and I hate what’s happened.  If I think on it very hard, I may even hate you.”   

Alerted by the strident edge of her words, Richard glanced over his shoulder.  His own problems seemed abruptly insignificant as he gazed on her face.  In all his years, he never would have imagined the bold, light-hearted girl who’d grown up in his shadow, juggling such complex emotions.  Opening his arms to her, he pulled her close. 

Though she resisted at first, Penelope folded against him, clinging not with desire, but the simple need of assurance.  Gently, Richard stroked her hair.  “I’m so sorry, Pen,” he whispered near her ear. “You shouldn’t be burdened with this.” 

“Why?”  Her voice was muffled against his shoulder.  “Because I’m a weak-kneed girl?” 

Richard chuckled.  “I’ve never thought of you as weak-kneed.”  Slipping a finger beneath her chin, he tilted her head up.  “I remember a time when you knocked Cedric cold for calling you ‘pretty’.” 

“I never thought I was pretty,” Penelope returned.  “Maybe because you never told me.” 

Richard studied her face—the becoming tilt of her eyes, the smooth, rose-dusted milk of her skin, the red-ripened bow of her mouth.  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered.  Threading his hand into the lush cascade of her hair, he gazed on her intently.  “I was a fool to never notice.”   

When she made no protest, Richard bent his head, gently claiming her mouth with his.  With any other woman he wouldn’t have been patient—demanding rather than giving—but she was so obviously innocent in the ways of love, he felt jaded by comparison.   

Penelope trembled in his arms, unsure of herself as she twined her hands behind his neck.  Tugging her closer, Richard deepened the kiss, dangerously aroused by her uncertainty. An uncharacteristic tremor riddled his body, as she hesitantly threaded her fingers through the curls on his collar.  When she arched against him, uttering a soft moan, he gasped aloud and drew back. 

Breathing heavily, he gazed down on her upturned face.  Her lips were parted, moist and full with the attentions of his kiss.  “Pen . . . we should stop,” he said with difficulty. 

Penelope appeared wounded.  “Why?” 

Struggling for control, Richard swallowed.  “Because I don’t have the restraint, and I want it to be different with you.”  Pausing, he groped for words.  “I want it to last.” 

A warm smile touched her lips as she digested his meaning.  Laying her head upon his chest, Penelope snuggled against him.  Underscored by the delicious heat of his body, the cool leather of his jerkin pressed against her cheek.  She felt the rapid beat of his heart, thrumming steadily beneath his ribcage.  A soft breeze blew across her face, smelling faintly of decay. 

As Richard’s arms tightened around her, she closed her eyes.  “I want it to last too.  Richard—” Pausing, Penelope raised her head, “I came here because I couldn’t sleep, but you still haven’t told me why you’re here.  Were you meeting someone?” 

“Of course, he was.” 

The throaty, feminine voice took them both by surprise.  Jerking apart, they stood stiff and motionless, as a white-haired woman moved from the shadows.  Rowena’s hair was disheveled and snarled, snagged with bits of dried leaves and mud-dark soil.  Her blue gown was faded, tattered in spots, and frayed at the edges.  All traces of softness had fled her jet-colored eyes, replaced by the cold edge of retribution.  As the wind snaked across the dead grass, the stench of decay wafted from the soil.  

Stunned, Penelope shook her head.  “Lady Rowena.  It isn’t possible.” 

Stepping in front of the younger girl, Richard used his arm to protectively coax her behind his shoulder.  “What do you want, Wraith?”  The flush of heat in Rowena’s body, coupled with her unkempt appearance, indicated she’d only recently risen from the grave.  Her appearance would alter, settling into poise and elegance when she’d claimed warmth and sustenance from another.  Belatedly wishing for a vial of holy water, crucifix, or even a handful of knowledge relating to supernatural beings, Richard strove for composure.  He knew what she wanted—had in fact already given it to her twice. 

Tilting her head, Rowena studied him with cool mockery.  “You would dally with a child, after you’ve lain with me?” 

Richard tensed.  Her eyes were engulfing, effortlessly pulling him into a void crafted by the pungent, dark scent of her presence; the cold-chafed kiss of her lips; the hungry, questing bite of her hands.  “Be gone,” he said stiffly.  Without conviction.  Without true desire. 

She laughed softly.  “Our lives are twined, Richard Grey.  I’ve done you a favor—taken the life of that paltry guttersnipe Radcliffe.” 

Penelope surged forward, no longer afraid, but outraged.  “You killed him?” 

Rowena’s eyes flicked over her, dismissing her as a thing of no significance.   Focusing on Richard, she took one step forward.  “I found him in the woods, his head bloodied, in a foul fit of  temper.  It was easy to seduce him.  I suppose after depleting him of warmth, the head wound was simply too much to endure.  Had he not succumbed, I would have made certain he never rose.” 

Richard wet his lips.  “Why kill him?” 

“Because Woodward instructed you to do so, and I need you to be close to him.” 

“To your husband?” 

Rowena’s lips thinned.  “So you’ve learned a thing or two, including what manner of creature I am.  How does it feel to have made love with the crypt?”  Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Rowena smiled silkily.  “If I wanted you Richard, I could command you.  You remember what it was like, flesh-to-flesh—” 

“Don’t,” he choked, his breath coming faster.  He could feel himself weakening, wanting desperately to posses her—to relive the torrid heat of feral passion, and the bittersweet tang of controlling love.   

“You want to kiss me, to touch me—” Her eyes were black stones, beckoning, inviting, demanding.   

Richard groaned. 

Alarmed, Penelope moved between them.  “Stay away from him, you wretched hag.”  Reaching quickly beneath her cloak, she pulled a small flask from the folds.  Holding it like a weapon, she  took a threatening step forward.  “For two years I’ve heard rumors of visitations in this garden.  It’s why it’s blighted, why nothing grows.  Did you really think I would come here without holy water, Demon?” 

Hissing, Rowena drew back.  With a curse that would have made an outlaw proud, Penelope uncorked the flask and flung the contents in the older woman’s face.  There followed a shrill screech, the lightning stench of a storm, the cold touch of disturbed earth. Penelope closed her eyes, blinking, at the abominable tangle of sound, scent and otherworldly feel.  When she looked again, Rowena was gone. 

Richard uttered a single, soft moan and crumbled behind her. 

 “Richard!”  Dropping to her knees at his side, Penelope felt frantically for a pulse.  His flesh was cold, and cadaver-white, wholly unnatural in appearance.  “Dear God, Richard!”  Pulling on his shoulders, Penelope leaned forward, struggling to lift his unresponsive body into her lap.  His skin was stone-cold to the touch, marred by prominent blue veins beneath the surface.  Bending forward, Penelope pressed her lips to his, kissing him with an intensity borne of desperation.  Within  moments he responded, opening his mouth to the sheer hunger of her passion.  Relieved, Penelope drew back, her face flushed with worry. 

Confused, Richard inhaled raggedly.  “What happened?”  The light in his green eyes was unsettled, bridled with controlled fear at the edges. 

Penelope touched his cheek.  The warmth was slowly returning to his flesh, the ghastly white pallor of his skin withering beneath a healthier glow.  “You don’t remember?” 

“I remember . . . her,” Richard said uncomfortably.  “What did you do?” 

Penelope looked sheepish.  “I brought a flask of wine with me.  I told her it was holy water.” 

“Wine?”  Sitting forward, Richard cradled his head in his hands.  “First a midnight rendevous and now wine.  Pen, what am I going to do with you?” 

Her smile grew calculating.  “I have a couple suggestions, but at the moment, I don’t think you’re up to any of them.  Besides—” she scoffed, “It was just to keep me warm.”  Standing, she offered her hand.  “I don’t think it’s wise to stay here.” 

Nodding, Richard rose unsteadily at her side.  With a wary glance for the night-shrouded garden, he escorted her outside.  Disturbed, he cleared his throat.  “There’s just one problem, Penelope.”  When she looked at him questioningly, he drew a breath and plowed ahead.  “I’ve already encountered Rowena in the stable and my chambers.  And her admission about Radcliffe, clearly confirms her sphere of movement is not confined to the garden.” 

“What are you saying?” 

“I’m saying that I don’t think we’ve seen the last of her.”  Reaching inside his jerkin, Richard withdrew the locket he’d found hidden in the bench.  “She said she killed Radcliffe, so I could remain close to Woodward.”  Thoughtfully he traced his thumb over the surface.  The size of a gold-piece, the locket was tarnished, with the initials RW etched in flowing script on the cover. 

Penelope looked from the age-blackened jewelry to his face.  “Why would you want to remain close to that bag of wind?” 

Richard’s mouth tightened.  “I guess I really should bring you up-to-date.”  Briefly, he told her of the charade he’d staged with his father, and his encounter with Woodward in the armory.  While he was at it, he also admitted to his dalliances with Rowena, though he did not go into detail.  When he was through, Penelope remained quiet and thoughtful.  Fearing he’d shattered any feelings she had for him, Richard awaited reprimand.  He was surprised when she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, pacing him companionably. 

 “I feel better knowing your words with your father weren’t sincere,” she said evenly.  Just as quickly a wicked smile lifted the corners of her lips.  “And if you think you’re going to get rid of me by admitting to some perverted tryst with that spectral strumpet, you’re sadly mistaken.” 

Richard scowled, flustered by her flippant behavior.  “Penelope, doesn’t it bother you—the impossibility of it?  We just spoke with a—” He shook his head, at a loss for words.  “—an apparition . . . a displaced spirit—a wraith.  I prefer to leave matters of the supernatural to the Church, but this shade is obviously vengeful.” 

“And yet she laid with you,” Penelope reminded him, only slight annoyed.  Richard guessed he’d been forgiven matters mostly beyond his control.  “How is it possible for an apparition to have flesh?” 

Richard shook his head.  “I don’t want to think about this.”  He was still uncomfortable with what he’d done, feeling defiled for the deed.  Worse yet was the awkwardness of discussing it with Penelope. Slipping his arm around her shoulders, he tugged her close, sheltering her within the folds of his cloak as they walked.   The rose-petal fragrance of her hair tickled his nose, and he closed his eyes briefly, inhaling the scent.  

Richard was silent, listening to the crunch of earth beneath their feet.  Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted, breaking the fragile stillness. Overhead, a crescent moon blundered free of the clouds, dousing the ground with anemic light.  Staring at the locket, Richard recalled Rowena’s words: my husband gave it to me, and I will not leave this realm without it. 

Woodward didn’t strike Richard as a romantic, and Rowena hardly seemed the loving sort.  Lifting his arm free of Penelope’s shoulders, he stopped and fumbled open the cover.  A folded slip of parchment was tucked inside. 

“Open it,” Penelope urged, peering over his shoulder.  When he hesitated too long, she snatched the article, bending her head as she quickly freed the multiple folds.  Bold letters slanted across the vellum in a strictly masculine hand.  In the limited light of stars and moon, they struggled to decipher a message two years old.  Stunned by the directive, Penelope looked at Richard.  “Is this possible?” 

His expression grim, Richard returned the parchment to the locket.  “More than possible, it confirms what we suspected.  Now I begin to understand Rowena’s actions.” 

Penelope was incredulous.  “I fail to see how this relates.” 

Catching her elbow, steering her closer to the castle, Richard walked quickly.  The night-blackened silhouettes of towering walls loomed above them.  “She must have lost the locket when she was attacked in the garden,” he explained.  “I found it in a crevasse in the bench.  She obviously wanted someone to discover it, and she chose me.” 

“That doesn’t explain what she did to you,” Penelope countered, growing annoyed.  

Hearing the petulant edge of her voice, Richard looped his arm about her waist.  “The last night Rowena came to me, I told her I wanted nothing further to do with her.  She implied she’d leave me alone if I found her locket.” 

Exasperated, Penelope rolled her eyes.  “Richard, you really are an oaf when it comes to women.  You may be utterly charming and skilled in bed, but you know absolutely nothing about the ways  a woman manipulates others—particularly men.” 

Richard’s smile was barbed.  “You’re forgetting Rowena isn’t an ordinary woman.  She’s driven by an insatiable need for warmth, which she pilfers through seduction. As long as she remains in this realm, she has to . . .”  He rolled his shoulders, searching for words, “ . . .feed on the living.  I believe she wants to leave, but can’t—or won’t—until she’s settled the score with her husband.  Pen, I think he killed her.” 

“What?”  Stalking boldly in front of him, Penelope placed her hand on his chest, forcing him to halt.  “Richard, have you lost all sanity?” 

“Listen to me.”  Patiently, he gripped her shoulders.  “I think Rowena found out Woodward was engaged in treasonous activity—that missive proves it.  He must have discovered she knew, came upon her in the garden and murdered her.  That’s why she’s doing this.  She can’t rest, until he’s brought to justice.” 

“Richard Grey, Envoy of the Dead.” 

“Pen, be serious.” 

“I am serious.  It’s you who’s lost his head.” 

Richard pressed his lips together.  “Fine.  Then take this.”  Catching her hand, he folded the locket into her palm.  “I’m going to confront Woodward tomorrow.  It’s probably best I don’t have this with me.” 

Abruptly concerned, Penelope’s impertinence faded.  “Richard, I’m worried.” 

“Don’t be.”  Smiling softly, he drew his thumb over her cheek.  “When this is over, I give you free rein to manipulate me anyway you choose.”   

Though his words were void of innuendo, Penelope blushed.  Emboldened by his invitation, she wrapped her arms about his neck.  “It’s taken you a dreadfully long time to come to your senses and notice me.”   

“True, but I promise to make up for missed opportunity.”  Lightly skimming his fingers down her side, he contoured the burgeoning hourglass shape of her body from breast to hip.  The feather-light caress of his hand sent jolts of sensation shooting through her flesh.  Swaying into his embrace, Penelope parted her lips, tugging his head down.  

“You are a wretchedly quick study,” Richard murmured with a teasing smile, and kissed her. 

+++++   

Hours later when Richard retired to his rooms, he found a missive from Woodward directing him to come to the rear battlement an hour before dawn.  Realizing the older man would likely betray himself, Richard took a chance and penned a hasty note to this father.  Departing in the wee hours of the morning, he left the missive with a servant, then headed to his pre-arranged destination with Woodward. 

The battlement was empty when he arrived, cloaked beneath the gray-black bowl of the sky.  A suggestion of light lingered to the east, virginal and new, as it struggled from the horizon. Crisp and damp, with a dew-saturated edge, morning air filtered through his long hair and crept beneath his collar. Blowing on his cold-stiffened fingers, Richard gazed over the stone wall, noting the jagged perimeter of Tiner, and the vast, rolling expanse of the heath. 

Minutes slipped into minutes.  He was beginning to grow frustrated when he heard the strike of boots against stone.  Turning, he came face to face with Woodward.  The older man’s expression was grim, his black hair and beard, lending dark severity to his face.   

“You have something to say?”  Richard prompted. 

Woodward shook his head, a hostile glint in his close-set eyes.  “Only what a fool you’ve been.”

With a brief nod past Richard’s shoulder, he smiled indulgently.  Sensing the danger too late, Richard half-turned, reaching for his sword.  He caught a glimpse of  Denlark’s sharp features, followed by the raised, braided wire of a sword hilt.  And then the world upended, exploding in a staggering conflagration as the heavy object crashed against his skull.  His sword never made it from the scabbard.  Dropping to his knees, Richard crumbled against the stone, light and sound banished to an abysmal void. 

+++++ 

Rising with the dawn, Penelope paced the eastern battlement, dwelling on the tumultuous events of the day before.  Dressed in her sleeping gown, and wrapped in the billowing folds of a wool cloak, she leaned against the wall, unmindful of the brisk morning air.  Her thoughts were full of Richard—the tender touch of his lips, the exquisite feel of his hands.  Originally she’d expected him to treat her as he did all his conquests, ushering her into bed on the first night.  But with gentle kiss and loving caress, he’d made it clear he wanted more than a brief seduction. 

Blushing, Penelope tugged her cloak close to her throat.  It still seemed like a dream.  An impossible, delicious, wondrous dream.  One from which she hoped never to awake.   

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t at first notice the movement below.  From her vantage point high on the castle wall, Penelope watched as two men maneuvered a third, unconscious, onto a horse.  The man’s hands were tied, his features hidden by a hooded cloak.  It was only when he half-slipped from the saddle and had to be caught, that the hood of his cloak fell back, exposing a riotous tumble of curls.  

Penelope gasped.  “Richard!” 

The other two men—she quickly identified them as Woodward and Denlark—mounted horses.  Denlark caught the reins of Richard’s steed, impatiently tugging it forward.  Unconscious, Richard lay belly down, loosely draped over the saddle.  Urging the beasts to a canter, the two men departed with their burden beneath the sheltering fringe of Tiner Forest.  

Heart thumping in her chest, Penelope raced from the battlement, intent on finding Sir Thomas.

+++++ 

Thomas Grey watched as his eldest son studiously devoured a sizeable breakfast.  Having already consumed his own fair share, Thomas was content to linger at the table, idly picking at pieces of fruit and sugar-trimmed pastries.  The hour was still fairly early, prompting only a smattering of guests to converge on the Great Hall.  Seated between Armus and Lord Brackhurst, Thomas feigned only vague interest in the conversation.  Preoccupied, his mind drifted back to the previous night and his encounter with Richard in the stable. 

His son’s erratic emotions had run the gamut from distraction to poise.  Though Thomas knew Richard was adept at affecting confidence, that demeanor was often forced.  Of all his children, Richard had the most difficulty asking for help, or in admitting weakness.  If he had encountered conflict with Woodward, it was likely he’d try to resolve the issue himself before asking for assistance.  It was that very aspect of his personality that often left Thomas grimacing in frustration.   Richard was stubborn, headstrong and arrogant—a combination that could readily lead to disaster given their present circumstances.  Only that morning Thomas had found a short note from his son, informing him of a meeting with Woodward.  Accordingly, Richard expected to force the issue, ending their charade by nightfall. 

“You’re not listening, Thomas,” Brackhurst said suddenly, drawing him from his thoughts. 

Thomas flinched, realizing the ginger-haired nobleman was watching him expectantly.  Recovering, the Lord of Covington Cross offered an abashed grin.  “My apologies, Clifford.  My mind was elsewhere, I’m afraid.” 

“T’would seem,” the elegantly-clad Lord agreed.  “I’d warrant that infernal son of yours is at fault.”  With a regal shake of his head, he pushed his plate aside.  “We all sympathize, Thomas.  When are you going to take the boy to task, and inflict the proper punishment?  He needs to be publically humiliated.” 

Opening his mouth to protest, Thomas was stopped short by Penelope’s breathless entry.  Attired in a sleeping gown and woolen cloak, blonde hair wild about her shoulders, the younger Lady Brandleford burst into the room.  Eyes wide, she halted just inside the doorway.  Spying Thomas, she rushed to his side, frantically clutching his arm, while attempting to pull him from the seat. 

“Sir Thomas, please—you must come quickly.  It’s Richard.” 

Bewildered by her distress, Thomas turned.  His fingers closed over hers, forcing her still.  “Penelope, what’s wrong?” 

“It’s Richard,” she said again, her words breathless and rapid-fire quick.  Desperate, she pulled on his sleeve.  “I saw Woodward and Denlark taking him into the forest.” 

A ping of alarm raced through Thomas.  Would Richard have agreed to such a one-sided encounter?  “What do you mean?” 

Across the table, Brackhurst chuckled.  “It appears your son’s made one too many derogatory comments, Thomas.” 

Thomas shot him a black glare.   Though inwardly he seethed, he knew he couldn’t destroy the facade he and Richard had worked so hard to project.  If he reacted with protective concern for his errant son, suspicion would surely follow.  Possibly, Richard was enacting his own ploy.  With effort,  Thomas refocused on Penelope.  “Penelope are you certain he wasn’t just accompanying—” 

“He was unconscious, Sir Thomas, and his hands were tied.”  Pulling Rowena’s locket from her cloak, Penelope fumbled it open, thrusting the hidden parchment beneath his nose.  “Read this, quickly, and you’ll realize what danger Richard is in.” 

It took Thomas only a moment to glance at the condemning words written over two years ago.  Shoving back his chair, he stalked toward the exit.  “Armus,” he barked.  He didn’t have to look over his shoulder, to know his fair-haired son followed grimly in his wake.  Though Armus was ignorant of Richard’s true motives, he was ready to go to his brother’s defense.  Ignoring the grumbling of the nobles, who couldn’t perceive his sudden concern, Thomas strode determinably for the stables.   

For Richard’s sake, Thomas  prayed it did not end too late. 

+++++                         

Gervase Woodward drew his horse to a halt on the edge of a steep embankment.  Below, trees and serrated beds of stone, jutted from the soil, sloping to the edge of the Hestlebrie River. Swift and strong of current, the water surged over broken slabs of rock, shooting sprays of foam into the air.  “This will suffice,” the black-bearded man told his companion.    

With a nod, Denlark coaxed Richard’s steed to the edge of the slope. Dismounting, Woodward heaved their prisoner over the embankment, sending him tumbling to the river below.  “If the fall doesn’t kill him, the current will,” Woodward mumbled darkly.  He stood a moment, craning his neck as he stared over the slope, but the fall had been quick and unforgiving.  There was no sign of Richard. 

With an acknowledging glance at Denlark, the black-beared man collected his horse.  Before he could mount, the thunderous clamor of approaching hooves drew him up short.  With a darting look at Denlark, he silently conveyed composure.  Though there wasn’t time for escape, alarm was unnecessary.  Many men engaged in morning excursions, to clear their heads of night-time wine and excess. 

“Sir Thomas!”  Woodward hailed the approaching group of riders with an engaging smile.  The man in front, silver-haired and grim, looked anything but cordial. Sensing danger, Woodward kept the false smile plastered on his face.  “I thought Lord Denlark and I would be the only fools to venture forth this early in the morning.  Surely you didn’t over indulge as well?” 

Wrenching his horse to a shuddering halt, Thomas unsheathed his sword in a single, swift movement.  Behind him a cluster of riders hovered, composed of Armus, Lord Brandleford and six of Candlemyre’s House Guard.  Dispensing with subtlety, Thomas leveled the tip of his broadsword just shy of Woodward’s face.  “What have you done with my son, you traitorous devil?” 

Woodward clung to innocence.  “Your son?”  His eyes flicked to Armus, watching as the fair-haired man dismounted and stepped toward the embankment.  “Your son is behind you, Thomas.  As I recall, you wanted nothing to do with the younger one.  He insulted you—” 

“If you’ve harmed Richard, I’ll slit your lying throat,” Thomas spat.  “There won’t be anything left for the King’s Guard, or the chopping block.” 

At Woodward’s side, Denlark paled.  Urging his horse forward, Brandleford halted at Thomas’s side.  “You may as well confess, Woodward.  I’ve already dispatched a courier to summon the sheriff and a contingent of the King’s Guard.  Both you and Denlark will be held in my dungeon until a time when you can be surrendered to the proper authority.” 

Bristling, Woodward squared his shoulders.  “For taking a morning ride?” 

 “For committing treason,” Brandleford said tightly.  Reaching into his tunic, he withdrew the slip of parchment once contained in Rowena’s locket.  Holding it aloft, he looked directly at Woodward.  “I have here, written in your own hand, a missive ordering the murder of two of the King’s advisors, plus King Edward himself.  Eighteen months ago such an attempt took place.  Though the undertaking was thwarted, without King Edward or anyone else being harmed, those responsible were never apprehended.  This missive is executed with your own seal, Gervase.”  As Brandleford spoke, his guards dismounted, quietly flanking the black-beared man. Indignant at the treatment, Woodward spared a flinty glance before refocusing on the Lord of Candlemyre Manor. 

“Preposterous!” he snapped.  “Who accuses me?  Where did you find such drivel?” 

Swinging his leg over the saddle, Thomas dropped to the ground.  The set lines of his face bespoke a harshness rarely seen on human flesh.  “I’d be more concerned with the fate of your  wretched soul.  Your life is forfeit, but you still have a chance to help my son, and redeem yourself before God.” 

“Down the embankment,” Denlark sputtered, before Woodward could so much as draw breath.  Pointing frantically between the trees, he looked beseechingly on Sir Thomas.  “Woodward threw him down there—toward the river—hoping to kill him.  I had nothing to do with it.  You must believe me.  I—” 

“Coward!”  Woodward roared.  Wrenching a battle-scarred blade from his scabbard, he lurched for Denlark.  The red-haired man cringed, flinching back in the saddle, throwing up his arms to protect himself.  As Woodward surged forward, sword arm extended, Thomas and two guards reacted instinctively.  Exposed to attack, Woodward jerked spasmodically as three separate blades pierced his back and sides. 

Pulling free his sword, Thomas didn’t even wait for Woodward’s lifeless body to strike the ground.  Striding purposefully past Denlark, he stood at the top of the embankment, wildly scanning the area below.  Behind him he could hear the guards milling around as they hurried to carry out Brandleford’s orders.  Denlark’s voice droned in the background, a plaintive whine as he surrendered his horse.  Thomas shut out the distractions, eyes flicking intently between the trees. Now that he looked closely, he could see a path of disturbed earth and broken, low-hanging branches.  Armus was already inching down the steep slope, careful of protruding rocks and roots, side-stepping his way to the river below. 

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Thomas pitched his voice above the angry roar of the current.  “Richard!”  Silence bounced back, mocking and thick.  “Richard!”  he yelled again.

Shrugging free of his cloak, Thomas moved recklessly down the slope.  “Armus, do you see him?” 

The fair-haired man paused, glancing back toward the drop-off above.  “Father, stay where you are.” Licking his lips, he looked over his shoulder to the churning water below.  “If I find him, I’ll need help—possibly a rope.” 

 “To hell with it,” Thomas muttered.  “There’s plenty of men for that.”  Behind him, he knew some of the guards were fanning out on the bank, aiding in the search now that Woodward and Denlark had been subdued.  When Armus started moving again, veering to the right, Thomas went left.  He knew if Richard had fallen into the river, he could have been swept hundreds of feet, even yards away.  The thought made his heart beat faster, the breath catch in his throat. “Richard!” he yelled again.  Further down the bank, Armus mimicked his call.   

The ground was soft and spongy, and Thomas’s boots sank easily into the yielding earth.  Closer to the river, the carpeting of leaves, fern and moss, grew slick with moisture coaxed from the Histlebrie.  Twice, Thomas slipped, gloved fingers catching on roots and rocks as his feet threatened to slide out from under him. The pitch of the incline made upright walking impossible, and he could only guess what the fall would have done to an unconscious man.  “Richard!”  His voice was growing hoarse from the effort of shouting over the roar of the river.  Still he clung to hope, his chest ready to burst with repressed fear.  “Richard!” 

“Father!”

Thomas stilled, disbelieving as the weak voice bounced back to him.  At first he thought it a trick of rock and water, a phantom of his own frantic mind.  He was just a few feet above the river now, clinging to the embankment as he fought to maintain his footing.  Glancing wildly about, his eyes settled on a dark shape twenty feet below.  Richard clung to a large rock on the edge of the river bank.  Half-submerged, he struggled against the current, as water sluiced around his waist.  His hair was wet, but not soaked, more from moisture and mist, then a fall into the churning water.   Thankfully, he must have caught himself before the river could carry him away.  Yet even from this distance, Thomas could see his clothing was torn, indicating he was battered from the fall.  The rope binding his wrists made his grip precarious at best.  “Richard—” There was greater strength to his voice now.  “Hold on—I’m coming.”  And then to Armus: “Armus, quickly!  He’s over here.” 

Thomas didn’t wait to see if his eldest son or the guards responded to his directive.  Scrambling down the slope, half running, half tripping, he strove to reach the blunt finger of rock, protruding into the river. 

“Father!” Richard called again.  His voice was stronger now, but Thomas feared what other damage may have been done.  As he neared and Richard raised his head, Thomas glimpsed a bloody bruise on his forehead, just to the right of his temple.  Half covered by wet, curling hair, the wound oozed blood down Richard’s cheek to his jaw.   

“Hurry,” Richard panted, grabbing at the rock, even as he slipped deeper into the river.  The stone was smooth and slippery, making it almost impossible to gain a finger hold.   

As Thomas neared, he realized the current was too strong to actually wade into the water, without costing them both. Desperately, he extended his reach over the rock, fighting to keep his feet anchored on the sodden ground.  His own foot slipped, and he caught himself, a hair’s-breath from tumbling into the river. From the corner of his eye, he could see Richard pushing up on his elbows, trying to gain height on the rock.  Though his son grappled for the edge, he was obviously too weak for anything but minimal effort.  Slipping on the cold stone, Richard fell back yet again.   

 “Dear God,” Thomas breathed, and wasn’t sure if it was plea or prayer.   

“Father.”  Thomas jerked as Armus came up behind him.  More sure-footed then he, the big man moved with a grace belying his size.   

“Hang onto me,” Thomas instructed.  Turning toward the rock, he threw himself across the protruding slab, blindly trusting his son to catch him.  Armus’s hands closed on his legs, just as his own fingers encircled Richard’s bound wrists.  Inching forward, he used one hand to grip Richard behind the elbow, the other to snag his tunic above the shoulder.  Up close, he could see the bright splash of blood across Richard’s cheek, the wild, desperate light in his eyes, as his strength readied to flee.  “Hold onto me,” Thomas gasped.   

Richard clutched frantically for his arms as Thomas pulled.  Behind him, Armus added his own strength, enabling Richard to scrabble onto the leaning surface of rock.  Panting, he allowed Thomas to pull him the remaining distance.  Of one accord, all three men tumbled backward onto the bank.   

“Thank God!”  Silver hair plastered to his face with mist, Thomas wrapped his arms around Richard.  Too weary to move, the Lord of Covington Cross leaned against Armus’s strong shoulder, as Richard sank gratefully against his chest.  Mumbling something unintelligible, Armus reached around him to bestow a brotherly pat on Richard’s shoulder.   

The younger man raised his head, too weary to do anything but offer a heartfelt glance.  “What did you say, Brother?” 

Expelling a loud breath, Armus leaned back against the bank.  “I said the next time, you two decide to play-act, I want to be forewarned and included.” 

Richard gave a soft, amused grunt.  Closing his eyes, he rested against his father’s shoulder.  “Next time, you can be the bad brother and get thrown over the cliff.” 

Armus snorted.  “It’s a slope, Richard.” 

“Cliff.” 

“Slope.” 

“Cliff.” 

“Slope.” 

“Boys,” Thomas said sharply.  When both looked at him as though he’d intruded into sacred territory, he nodded up the embankment.  “I see Brandleford’s guards.  Wouldn’t you rather continue this argument back at Candlemyre?” 

 “That depends.”  Wincing, Richard shifted painfully.  “How likely is it to hurt, climbing back up?” 

+++++ 

Richard waited in the garden, uncertain what he expected to find.  Five days had passed since the incident at Histlebrie, and while he still courted bruised ribs and abrasions, most of the aches associated with his fall, had subsided into memory.  With Woodward’s death, Denlark bore the brunt of the treasonous relationship, and was taken into custody, awaiting execution.  The parchment found in Rowena’s locket was given to the King’s Guard as proof of Woodward’s involvement. When asked, Richard said only that he found the parchment in the garden, avoiding all mention of Rowena and the locket. 

Though he still had occasion to remember their vulgar association, the images were no longer as powerful, and he found he could distance himself from the memories.  A budding romance with Penelope was largely responsible for that shift in focus.  She was both romantic partner and prickly voice of his conscience.  Although she’d outgrown the snippety girl-child of her youth, she often reverted to a sharp and saucy tongue, and in retrospect, he realized he liked that just fine.  

As he considered the last few days, Richard glanced about the small box garden.  With a jolt, he realized there were sprouts of greenery among the browned hedgerows. Tenuous flowers bloomed in bowers once barren and dry, and new leaves sprouted on proud, stately trees.  The odor of decay was a memory, buried in the soft warm soil, grown sweet with clover. 

It was as though Rowena had redeemed herself in the death of her husband.  As though, now at peace, she willingly relinquished her hold on the garden.  Reaching into his tunic, Richard withdrew her locket.  Unlike the garden, which moved toward revival, the necklace had tarnished, growing discolored over the last few days.  Rubbing his thumb over the surface, Richard paused to consider recent events. 

After exposing Woodward and Denlark as traitors, Richard and Thomas were elevated to heroic status in the eyes of the other nobles.  Their previous friction was revealed a cleverly crafted facade, with a few grumpy Lords implying they’d suspected as much all along.  Richard had neither the desire nor stomach to debate the point, and dismissed it out of hand.  Matters returned to normal between he and Sir Thomas, while the Mayfest commenced with renewed cause for celebration. 

But despite the festive air, Richard remained uneasy about Rowena’s visitations.  He would share the secret of those spectral occurrences with Penelope, and no other.  Surely no other rational soul would believe him.   

“There you are.” 

Richard smiled broadly as Penelope appeared at the edge of a bower.  Sunlight gleamed in her honey gold hair, threading the soft, lustrous strands with ivory and gold.  Framed by the budding greenery of the garden, she was a vision without equal.  Entranced, Richard offered his hand.  As  her fingers twined with his, he pulled her close, brushing a light kiss across her lips.  “Miss me so soon?” 

Penelope feigned indifference.   “An insolent lout like you?  I don’t know why I bother, when Wilford Sutton asked only this morning if I’d ride with him.” 

Richard snorted.  “You bother because  you’re head-over-heels in love with me—and who could fault you such good judgement?” 

Prompted by his teasing, Penelope cast him an arch glance.  “Are you naturally this conceited, or do you have to work at?” 

“It’s an acquired skill,” Richard assured, “And in case you hadn’t realized, Wilford Sutton is a pasty-faced sloth, proficient only in emptying wine flasks.” 

Though his tone was light, Penelope sensed an underlying possessiveness, utterly endearing.  Leaning into his embrace, she wrapped her arms around his neck.  “Such a pointed description.  I do believe you’re jealous, Richard.” 

“Jealous?”  The gleam in his eyes was playful.  Raising a hand, he tracked leisurely fingers over her cheek.  “Pen, I’d throttle the ogre, if he so much as looked at you when I was around.”  Before she could utter protest or comment, Richard pressed his lips to hers.  Releasing the locket, he allowed it to slip from his fingers, tumbling forgotten to the ground.