Chapter Three
G uy sat astride his charger and watched from the cliffs as the swirling sea gradually retreated from the mainland, exposing the narrow causeway linking his home to the fishing village of Rossfarne.
He had never set foot in these parts until six days prior, but what he found had pleased him for it was a wild, beautiful landscape and the rhythmic crashing of the tides eased the knot of tension inside him. In the narrow gullies on the far side of the castle, the waves sounded as loud as thunder, like an external manifestation of his own anger and pain. If he must endure several months of enforced inactivity, he would choose to endure them here, where the physical barrier of the sea and the social barrier of his uncle's grievous reputation combined to keep prying eyes away.
Prying eyes and thieving fingers, keen to exploit his temporary vulnerability.
As if sensing his master's surge of emotion, the horse beneath him shifted. Guy sat deeper in the saddle and wrapped his long legs around the horse's warm belly to steady himself. He must use balance and intuition until his useless left arm had healed.
The surgeon had told him to rest completely. But Guy was a knight, used to physical extremes and constant action. He lived for the adrenaline rush of galloping across a battlefield, sword in hand. He could no more lay in bed all day than he could dance a jig.
At least his sword arm was unharmed.
The tide had drawn back. It was time to leave. Guy had no real urge to explore the mainland and risk coming into contact with villagers or farming folk, but the claustrophobic confines of the island were already plaguing him. More importantly, he had a job to do. One that he would be pleased to put behind him.
He had left the castle unannounced, dressed plainly in a linen shirt and a soft cap. With any luck, no one would recognise him. It was only the coat of arms on his carriage that had given him away at the tavern last night.
Last night. How he regretted the impulse that had propelled him into a misjudged game of dice in a grubby alehouse. He had gone in search of mild distraction and instead, had borne witness to the depravity of the human soul. The evening had sickened him.
He nudged his horse forwards, adjusting in the saddle as the long strides threatened to unseat him. A familiar surge of pain travelled from his wrist to his shoulder, and he held his body tense until it passed. Pain was good. Pain meant his arm was not fully dead and that there was hope it might recover. And then, one day, he could re-join his band of brothers on the battlefield.
Although the first thing Guy would do was track down the no-good thief who had stolen his bag of coin while he lay helpless on a hospital bed. Coin that had been hard-earned in battle against the Scots.
His muscles twitched at the memory and the powerful horse broke into a trot. Guy clenched his teeth and drew back on the reins with his remaining good hand. He must keep his emotions better under control. In all his years fighting under King Edward, he had never shown weakness. His horses could always trust him to remain calm in the face of chaos.
He turned in the saddle to look back at Rossfarne Castle. Two fortified towers reared towards the sky while roiling waves crashed continuously against the outer wall. His eye travelled over the crenelated stonework looking out for tell-tale cracks, but it all appeared sound. The castle lacked luxury, but it was weatherproof. Only the gatehouse, standing to the east of the bailey, needed attention. The marshal had told him of a ferocious winter storm that sent a tree crashing straight through the roof. If Guy still had his bag of silver, he could have set about ordering repairs right away.
The horse trotted forwards, ears pricked, easily eating up the ground. Guy found his face breaking into an unexpected smile. He'd feared any pace faster than a walk would unsteady him, but so long as he ignored the jolting pain in his shoulder, no one would ever guess that one side of his body had been slashed right through to the bone. The jagged scar ran from his navel, over his ribs to his shoulder blade. Guy inspected it every morning when he dressed. Not through vanity, but to ensure it continued to heal. He was counting the days until he could return to the life he loved in service of the king.
Maybe that day was closer than he dared to dream? Guy scanned the causeway as it stretched out before him. A straight path featuring just one bend. For as far as he could see, it was empty. Of course it would be. No one ever came here. The villagers lived in fear of the notorious Earl of Rossfarne. Guy had long ago disowned his family and in so doing, shrugged off the ghosts of his scarred upbringing. He believed in action, not sentiment—and he certainly had little sentiment for the terrifying old man who he had visited only once as a child. But while he was here, he intended to exploit his uncle's dark reputation. It would ensure his days passed without the scourge of uninvited visitors, but more importantly, it would keep thieves and opportunists away.
How he hated his current state of weakness.
With no one ahead of him and the ground level, it was the perfect time to urge his horse into a canter. To see how far he was from full fitness.
The three-beat staccato rhythm brought a new surge of discomfort. A nagging ache encircled his torso and hot sparks of pain shot down his ruined arm. Guy gritted his teeth, but he was not a man to admit defeat. Wincing with effort, he transferred the reins into his feeble left hand, all the while keeping contact with the horse through his muscular calves. Reins secure, albeit only just, he lunged out with his sword hand, mimicking a sword thrust in battle. Sweat sprang out on his brow, but he had done it. Just.
Light-headed with pain and exultation, Guy sat up straighter in the saddle and drew back steadily on the reins. That was when he saw her. A young woman, tall and curvaceous, with a purposeful stride and a face that filled with fear when she saw the horse careering towards her.
"Whoa," Guy instructed, his voice calm and deep. But he had not yet taken the reins back into his good hand and the horse, panicked at the insufficient contact with his master, veered sharply to the left.
The sudden movement knocked Guy off balance. For a long moment he hung precariously to one side, but his years in the saddle had given him an instinctive feel for a horse's movements. He righted himself and grasped the slack reins, pulling the horse up short. At the same time, the girl darted forwards, pale hands outstretched for the bridle.
What madness was this?
Startled again, the horse reared, front legs thrashing at the air. Guy clung on, his face twisted in a grimace of pain.
"Steady there, steady," urged the girl. Her straw hat fluttered to the ground releasing a surprising wave of hair the colour of autumn leaves.
The horse snorted and landed heavily. The jolt sent pulses of pure anguish shooting up Guy's wrist. His shoulder was on fire and his back was damp with sweat.
"What in heaven's name are you doing?" he demanded. His voice was low and calm because of the horse, but he imbued the words with all the authority of his newly acquired rank.
He expected her to flee, but instead she met the full force of his gaze. Her eyes were like a still sea on a summer's day. Her chin tilted upwards in a small gesture of self-assertion he recognised from his own younger days. A small part of him noted that this was a woman of courage.
"I am steadying your horse," she replied. Her voice was sweet and clear, not coarse like he'd expected. She may be clothed in a poor woollen dress, but she spoke like a noblewoman.
"My horse is no concern of yours." The force behind his words lessened as he gazed down at her honest face and captivating green eyes. She was tall, unusually so. He estimated she stood just a half head shorter than he.
Undaunted, she reached out once again and stroked the snorting, foam-flecked creature. Instead of veering away, the horse exhaled with something like relief and dropped his head. Guy sensed the moment that all the fright and flight went out of the animal and simultaneously experienced something similar himself. He felt the warmth of the sun on his face, heard the calling of the gulls overhead and the gentle breaking of the waves behind them.
What was happening to him? Witchcraft?
"Do you know who I am?" he demanded, straightening up.
Immediately she sank into a surprisingly graceful obeisance. "I believe I do, my lord."
She knew who he was, yet she did not run in fear. Was this bravery or foolishness? Despite his reluctance for human contact, he was intrigued.
"What business do you have on my land?" His voice was softer now.
She swallowed, betraying her fears. "I am come looking for work." Her eyes darted to the ground and rested on her fallen hat.
He was surprised. His household staff was small. The marshal had explained that few locals were willing to come there. He'd suggested it was due to the isolation of the island, the fierce storms, the separation from the mainland. Guy knew that none of these things would dissuade the villagers from steady employment and regular coin. The truth was, the people of Rossfarne would rather face starvation than seek work from his uncle.
He looked at her closely. She had no possessions and only a shabby woollen dress to protect her from the elements. A dress which clung tightly to the womanly curves of her body.
"Have you travelled far?" He averted his eyes from her figure with effort, fixing them instead on her heart-shaped face.
"Oh yes," she nodded eagerly. Mayhap too eagerly. "For many nights now."
It was a lie. This woman had bathed recently. He could smell the lemony freshness of her hair. And despite its poor quality, her dress was neat. He did not believe she had been sleeping rough in the fields.
Why the deception? Was she come to do him harm? His mouth twitched upwards. He'd faced mighty warriors on the battlefield and would enjoy any challenge issued from a green-eyed maid with a steely backbone.
If only the foolish man he'd faced last night had shown half her character.
The memory of his morning's errand made his face harden and suddenly the spell that had been woven silently between them fell away, like a tide withdrawing from the beach.
What care did he have for the running of a household he would not be staying in long?
"You are welcome to enquire with the marshal," he said dismissively.
"Thank you, my lord." This time her obeisance was low and deep, and it unlocked something inside him.
Was she a noblewoman fallen on hard times? Should he extend the hand of chivalry? But if that were so, why would she tell him an untruth? Perhaps she was the bastard child of his uncle, come looking for some inheritance?
Well, let her try.
With a brusque nod, he urged his horse on, away from the bewitching young woman and her bewildering tale. The marshal would no doubt offer her employment. She would not starve. And her presence at the castle might enliven his long, dull days of convalescence. Something about her called to him, like a distant memory which could not be fully recalled; the seductive sway of her red-gold hair, her calm air of confidence.
He shook the notion away. It had been too long since he'd known the pleasures of female flesh. And he had higher priorities than bedding a serving girl, no matter how sparkling her eyes. His body must heal so that he could return to duty on the battlefield.
But before that, he had a far less pleasant undertaking.
*
He slowed his horse to a walk as they approached Shoreston Manor. His left arm was grieving him terribly now and he kept it tucked close to his body. He had done too much, pushed himself too hard. But he must return the cloth bag of jewels to the family of the drunkard before he could turn back to the castle.
He shouldn't have taken them in the first place. But he had won them fair and square in a roll of the dice witnessed by more than a dozen villagers. Guy had been dumbstruck when the red-faced, overweight man before him had raised the stakes in what had been a harmless game, giving name to the Answick jewels.
He knew of the Duke of Answick and dimly remembered the tale of a distant cousin wedding far beneath her, against the wishes of her ancient family. He'd gazed down at the small table, pungent and sticky with spilled ale, and sensed a chance for him to recoup what he had lost. The bulging bag of silver that he'd needed for tithes to the king as well as repairs to the castle. He should have turned away, but the thrill of competition ran hot in his blood. He'd never been able to back down from a challenge.
Though was it likely that here, in a grubby alehouse in a small fishing village, he would recover an equivalent fortune to that which had been stolen from him? Instead of drinking down his ale and bidding farewell to the gamblers gathered around him, he had leaned back in his hard wooden chair and declared that the so-called Answick jewels were not enough.
"What do I know of their quality?" he'd demanded, expecting the addition of livestock or more coin.
When the drunkard had named his eldest daughter, Guy had been seized with cold disgust.
As soon as the first rays of morning sunlight had woken him from a troubled, uncomfortable sleep, he'd known he must return the jewels. Thank heavens he didn't have to return a daughter in the bargain. A daughter whose life could have been marred forever by the greed of her father.
He patted the leather saddlebag beside him inside which he had hidden the Answick jewels. Last night, they had sparkled inside the darkness of his carriage, surprising him with their beauty. With their undoubted authenticity. He'd hoped for trinkets of some little value, instead he was holding the means to elevate the life of the girl who now, by rights, belonged to him. He couldn't keep them in good conscience. Each time he looked at them he would be reminded of the evening in the tavern and the awful depravity of the man known as Owain the drunkard.
Although he'd seen it only by moonlight, the winding country lane was familiar, as was the approach to Shoreston Manor. He urged his horse into a trot once more, accepting the pain in return for getting this over with quickly. He turned into the driveway, noting the weeds and the tumbled down boundary wall. The house had once been welcoming, he could see it in the set of the mullioned windows and the sweeping steps up to the front door, but now it was rundown and neglected. Just one piece of the jewellery in this bag would pay for a new roof and more. How had the jewels remained unsold?
It was no concern of his. His jaw tightened as a clucking chicken scurried away from the horse's hooves. He would hand over the bag and get out of here as quickly as he could. He only hoped Owain had sense enough to stay out of his way.
But no servant opened the door on his approach. The house stood silent and closed off to the world. He turned in the saddle to survey the farm buildings. No one was around. Shoreston Manor was apparently deserted.
"Hello," he shouted, his voice gruff and loud.
No response, save the scratching and clucking of the chickens.
His mouth curled with disgust at a wasted journey. Could he leave the jewels somewhere they might be found? It was tempting to get them off his hands and put the whole incident behind him. But he already knew he couldn't. He must ensure they passed directly to Owain's daughters, and he knew better than anyone how thieves lurked around every corner.
With a low growl of displeasure, he spun the horse around and set off for the causeway at a gallop. The speed pained his body but set his mind free. He was one with the horse, one with the wind, one with the foaming sea, which was already closing over the far edges of the causeway as they clattered home. He had misjudged the tides and how little time they allowed him. No wonder his uncle had kept a carriage and horses on the mainland.
His horse was battle fit and unfazed by their journey, but Guy's legs were weak as he dismounted and handed over his reins to a stable boy. His left arm was a long streak of pain and his ribs ached as if the enemy sword had cut them afresh. Had his exertions opened his scar? He cursed his own foolishness and then ground his teeth in frustration at his ongoing physical failings.
Must he live in this cursed place like an invalid? To do so was against his very nature.
"Welcome back, my lord," the marshal nodded from the gatehouse.
Guy grunted a reply. He wanted only to retire to his solar and close the door. To spend another day with nothing but his pain for company.
Irritation surged inside him that his life had narrowed so drastically. Just weeks earlier, he had been a trusted knight of the king. Now he couldn't even gallop a few paces without whimpering like a babe. The dark battlements of the castle increased his displeasure. He walked through the courtyard as if he were about to enter a prison.
A prison of his uncle's making. This castle had known neither laughter nor joy in many years. A dour misery had seeped into the very walls, infecting the servants and even the furnishings. It reminded him of the wretched childhood he'd worked so hard to escape. Phantoms that he'd banished long ago were rising within him, threatening everything.
Suddenly his need for human contact became overwhelming. He pivoted on his heel and marched back to the marshal.
"Did a young woman come here today looking for work?" he demanded.
"Yes, my lord. I sent her to Cook. She always has need of extra help."
"What was her name?"
The marshal thought for a moment. He was a small man with a weathered face. "'Twas Kitty, I believe."
"Kitty." Guy turned the name over in his mind. He recalled her tumbling curls, the colour of autumn leaves. Her sea-green eyes. The hypnotic sway of her hips. He pressed his lips together and tasted salt from the sea. "I look forward to seeing more of her." He paused. "Mayhap have the girl bring luncheon to my solar, if Cook can spare her from the kitchen."