Flight From Blithmore (6 page)

“Shut
up! SHUT UP!”

She
tried to keep up with him to lessen the burning in her scalp, but her father
moved quickly. Her pleas turned into screams of agony and fright. She tried to
look behind to see if Norbin was following, but another sharp, biting jerk of
her hair forced her to give up. The back door of Oslan Manor was already open.
He led her upstairs with the same forcefulness. Isabelle made sure to not trip
on the steps up for fear that she might rip out her hair. The moment they were
inside Lady Oslan’s chamber, her father threw her to the floor.

“Stay
here,” he ordered. “Mourn over your mother’s dead body until I get back.” He
left the room and locked the door from the outside. “Where are you going?” she
heard him shouting at Norbin. “Get out there and dig up that coffer! I don’t
care how long it takes you!”

Isabelle
knelt on the floor and rubbed her head, checking for any spots where her hair
had been pulled out. She looked around her mother’s room and tried the door. It
was locked. Nothing in the chamber had been touched. She felt better knowing
her father hadn’t put his filthy hands on anything. After calming herself, she
blew out several of the candles, leaving the room in the dim, respectful light
of early evening. Then she washed her hands in the bowl on the bedside table
and pulled back the sheets so she could tend to her mother.

The
work absorbed her and cleansed her emotions. For a time, she forgot about her
father and focused on her mother, letting the full impact of everything that
had happened soak in. She wept unabashedly as she changed her mother out of the
nightgown into her old, but magnificent white wedding dress; then she brushed
her mother’s hair and applied a touch of color to her mother’s cheeks and lips.
The whole process took a long time. When she finished, it appeared that the
last thing her mother had done before passing away was groom herself. Tears
still came, but Isabelle didn’t bother to brush them aside. She took a fresh
white sheet from the linen closet and laid it over her mother. She had barely
finished when her father’s voice boomed through the manor.

“
WHERE
IS THE GOLD, ISABELLE
?” It sounded so loud and deep, it could have been
inhuman. She heard him thundering up the stairs toward her and cowered against
the wall.

“Henry,”
she whispered. “I need you right now.”

Eight
-

Not a Hero

As
Isabelle cowered
in Henry’s shop listening to her father yell
at Norbin, Maggie and Brandol were making poor time getting the sack of gold
into the house. Brandol didn’t like their situation one bit. Everything in the
world had turned a very dark yellow and frightening questions filled his mind.
Why was Isabelle so terrified of being seen? What would happen if Lord Oslan
caught him? What if he tripped and spilled the gold all over Henry’s lawn? Was
he involved in a crime? Could he be arrested for stealing?

Brandol
considered himself a strong man. He helped Henry move wood and furniture,
loading and unloading the cart daily, but he had never tried to heft anything
this heavy. He guessed the sack must weigh nearly two hundred pounds. Maggie’s
face was red as a tomato, and he could only imagine how his own looked. The
shouts they heard from Lord Oslan grew louder, urging them to move faster.

“HEAVE!”
Brandol’s voice came out strained. The bag went up two steps. Then, with one
last great tug, they cleared the steps and the porch, closing the door behind
them. He did not bother to check if Lord Oslan had seen them go inside. The bag
dropped to the floor with a heavy
thud
. The muscles in Brandol’s back,
arms, and hands burned as though branding irons poked deeply into his skin.

He
looked at Maggie and followed her gaze to the bag of gold. The thick coins
reflected dozens of tiny points of light back at them like a pot of rich honey.
Brandol had never imagined so much money. Maggie seemed to be thinking the same
thing.

“Where
we gonna put it?” He lay on the floor waiting for the aching in his back to
subside.

Maggie
raised an arm, then dropped it again with a sigh. “I don’t know. Let’s leave it
right here. I can’t move right now.”

Brandol
didn’t like the idea. What if Lord Oslan barged his way into the house? He had
not spent all that time in the mud digging up the gold to see it taken right
back. Plus, the thought of defending the gold from Isabelle’s irate father
terrified him. Before Maggie said anything else, he got up and went into the
kitchen and returned with a stack of large wooden bowls he’d helped Henry carve
for Maggie to display her vegetables at the market.

“How
‘bout using these?” he offered.

A
double gold crown was the same circumference as a single crown but twice as
thick. The emblem of the Crown of Blithmore adorned each side, instead of one.
It surprised Brandol how cold they were, but each handful he grabbed brought
with it a new jolt of excitement. He imagined himself as King of Blithmore,
unable to ever spend so much gold.

Maggie
grinned as she scooped it up in bowls. “It would take me all day to count
this.”

Brandol
had very little arithmetic skill. For all he knew, the bag contained almost a
million coins. It certainly looked like a million. His mother had once told him
that a million was the largest number, and that God had not created a million
of anything. Maybe she’d been wrong.

They
hadn’t emptied even half the bag when they heard more shouts from Lord Oslan,
but these new ones came from the woodshop. Brandol got up first and ran across
the house to the side door connecting the house to the shop. He cracked it open
and looked around. He saw nothing unusual except that the shop had been left
open—something Henry didn’t like. He went to close it and heard another cry. Through
the doorway, he saw Lord Oslan dragging Isabelle up the lawn by her hair. His
first impulse was to run after her, but that noble thought was immediately
extinguished by a feeling of impotence.

When
he returned from the shop, Maggie stood at the window with a look of shock on
her face. “Brandol, you have to do something!”

“I
can’t do nothing to help.” His shoulders slumped as he spoke. His ears grew
hot. Throughout his life, he’d been called many names: stupid, dunce, pathetic,
useless, even
Runt
by his own parents, but never “hero.”

What
did Maggie expect him to do? Chase down Lord Oslan and challenge him to
fisticuffs? He joined her at the window to see Lord Oslan yank his daughter
through the hedge and out of sight.

“Brandol!”
Maggie yelled. “Get out there now!”

Brandol
had no choice but try to help. He’d never done anything like this. As a child,
he’d been the one needing help. He ran to Henry’s shop to find something
useful. A slow perusal of the woodshop gave him no ideas. In fact, Brandol
didn’t know if he wanted any ideas because that idea would have to be acted
upon. Biting his lip, he glanced around the shop once more. Isabelle’s spades
lay on the floor near the door. He picked one up and held it awkwardly.

“Good
as anything,” he muttered to himself.

His
thoughts were jumbled as he leapt from the porch onto the grass. The spade
shook in his hands. What would he do if he caught Lord Oslan? Threaten him?
Bludgeon him? Brandol didn’t think he could even speak properly in this state.
Any violence he managed to inflict on the nobleman would likely be severely
punished. Isabelle’s cries had long vanished. The rain still came down
steadily, although it wasn’t pouring as heavily as it had been.

As
he crossed the hedge, the spade caught in the branches and threw off his
balance. He gave the handle a hard tug, and the spade jerked free, but his feet
slipped on the wet grass. He hit the earth, knocking his head on the open lid
of the abandoned coffer as the blade of the spade crashed down on his face and
knocked him unconscious.

When
Brandol opened his eyes, he had no idea if he’d been out for seconds, minutes,
or hours. What he did know, however, was that his nose, forehead, and the back
of skull ached terribly. Water and mud drenched his clothes, the forgotten key
to the chest dug into his back, and he still had a shovel covering his face.
Slowly, he sat up, looked around, and remembered how he’d gotten in such a
messy predicament. He wiped his nose with his hand.

“I
shouldn’ta done this,” he moaned when he saw the blood on his palms. Blood
always made his vision go red. “What’m I doing?”

Getting
up proved difficult on the slick ground. He looked toward Lord Oslan’s manor,
then down at the shovel. The reddish-black world grew yellow spots, and Brandol
lost all heart. He closed his eyes and clutched his leg, feigning horrendous
pain. Leaving the shovel where it lay, he crawled back to the woodshop,
dragging his arms and knees through the mud and slick grass. He thought he
heard shouts coming from Oslan Manor behind him, but didn’t dare look back. He
slumped to the floor of the shop, wondering what to do next. When nothing came
to mind, he simply sat in his misery and watched the world turn more and more
colors. Would Maggie find him like this? He hoped not. Several minutes later,
the street door opened and Master Henry walked in, shaking the rain off his
cloak.

He
saw Brandol’s state and asked, “What happened to you?”

Brandol
ignored Henry’s question and explained as best he could in his current state of
distress about Isabelle, Lord Oslan, and the gold. Words never came easily for
him, but any distress made speaking much more difficult. Henry didn’t listen
long. As soon as he heard about Isabelle being dragged off, his expression
became furious and he ran through the side door. Brandol stayed on the floor
long after Henry had gone, trying to ignore the pain in his nose, waiting for
the bleeding to stem, and feeling absolutely worthless.

Nine
-

The Fury of Lord Oslan

Lord
Oslan’s key
rattled in the lock before the door burst open. Isabelle
turned to look at her father. His face was red and puffy like a huge blister.
It gave his bared teeth an even yellower hue. His eyes blazed with the fires of
hell. For once, he paid no mind to the muddy spots on the floor. He walked over
to Lady Oslan’s fireplace, withdrew an iron poker, and advanced toward her.

“Where
is the gold?” He punctuated each word by tapping the poker on the floor.

Somehow,
her voice remained calm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“M—Master.”
Isabelle heard Norbin’s exhausted voice at the stairs as he slowly climbed.
“Please . . . . You must come to your senses before something happens that you
will regret.”

“Tell
me where it is, girl, or I’ll beat it out of you.”

He
moved forward, brandishing the poker like a sword, and Isabelle knew she must
either confess or die. Her father had lost his reason, and Norbin could do
nothing to save her. She recoiled back, trying to sink herself into the wall,
and closed her eyes. She remembered her mother’s admonishment to not give in to
her father’s intimidation.

Summoning
her strength, she raised her head and said, “Give me your best, Father!”

“My
Lord,” Norbin cried as he appeared in the room, “Master Vestin is at the back
door. He appears intent on coming inside, and he is armed.”

Lord
Oslan swung the poker savagely. Isabelle closed her eyes and braced herself.
The iron struck the wall right above Isabelle’s head, and sent pieces of stone
showering into her hair. Her father marched down the stairs, screaming and
cursing God and heaven.

“I
told that fool of a boy I never wanted to see him again!”

Isabelle
tried to get up and stop him, but her body was drained. A groan escaped her as
she slumped back down on weak legs, but all she saw was the image in her mind
of her father running Henry through with a sword.

“Do
you love him or not?” She stood back up, grunting through the pain and fatigue.
“Then get up!”

Lord
Oslan’s footsteps boomed across the den. A clattering of metal on stone reverberated
through the house as he dropped the poker to the floor. Then Isabelle heard the
sounds of her father removing his sword from where he kept it mounted, followed
by his steps marching to the back door. Isabelle had barely made it halfway
down the stairs when her father left the manor. She jumped over the railing of
the stairs and pain shot up her legs, nearly causing her to fall over. Ignoring
it all, she grabbed the abandoned poker and chased after her father outside.

Henry
and Lord Oslan circled each other on the grass, swords held at the ready.
Henry’s lips were pursed, his face pink, and his eyes wide as they darted
between Lord Oslan’s face, sword, and feet. What scared Isabelle the most was
that he wasn’t holding the sword properly, and his footwork was poor, too. Her
brother, James, hadn’t taught her much about swordplay, but she’d learned
enough to know that Henry stood no chance.

Her
father attacked as he yelled, “I warned you!”

Isabelle
shouted a warning. Henry ducked as he tried to parry Lord Oslan’s attack,
barely saving his own life.

“Your
gold is in my home!” Henry’s words came in a stammering rush. “Kill me, and you
won’t get it.”

“Oh
you think so?” He swung his sword again, this time downward at Henry’s head.
Henry leapt back and slipped on the grass. Lord Oslan saw his opportunity and
took it. Isabelle rushed forward and hit her father in the back of the knees,
sending him crumbling to the ground in a yelp of pain. He rolled and looked up
at Isabelle. Henry scrambled to his feet while Isabelle stepped on her father’s
wrist.

Her
father had no chance with his sword pinned to the ground and Henry’s own blade
pointed at his neck. Isabelle knew it hadn’t been a fair fight, and didn’t
care. She watched the madness leave his eyes, and noted the rage still
simmering below the surface. He glared at both of them in disgust.

“I
yield! I yield!” He released his grip on the sword, allowing Henry to pick it
up. The two swords in Henry’s hands were very similar. Isabelle took her foot
off her father’s wrist and allowed him to pick himself up very slowly. Lord
Oslan refused to look them in the eye as he brushed himself off and limped past
them. All he said was, “We can discuss this inside.”

Henry
surveyed Isabelle’s disheveled, filthy state and, with only a look, asked her
if she was alright. She answered him with a nervous smile, and his expression
of relief touched her. They followed Lord Oslan into the den, where he picked
up a pipe from the mantle and lit it. Then he sat in his favorite chair and waited
for them to take their own seats. Henry, wet and half-covered in mud, took one
seat. Isabelle, even filthier, sat opposite him. Lord Oslan watched them,
daring one of them to speak first. Norbin entered the room from the hall,
looked in briefly, then muttered an excuse to leave them to their business.

“My
condolences about your wife, Lord Oslan,” Henry offered with real sincerity.
“She was a good—”

“Spare
me the nonsense and tell me where my gold is.”

“I
returned home only minutes ago from a delivery, during my absence the money
passed into my possession—”

 “It
can’t be ‘in your possession,’ boy.” Lord Oslan tightened his grip on his pipe.
“Don’t you get that? It is legally mine! I can take it from you.”

“I
forbid you from entering my home.”

Isabelle
tried to speak, but her father cut her off. “I have a receipt from my wife of a
thousand crowns. I have an empty coffer buried at the junction of our
properties. Any magistrate looking into the matter will draw the appropriate
conclusions.”

“But
I have witnesses that know I was gone during the time your gold went missing.”

“They
will search your home and find the gold!”

“You
won’t find it, Father.” Isabelle’s voice sounded much braver than she felt, but
saying them gave her a deep sense of satisfaction. “But it will interest you to
know that Mother did not have a thousand crowns, but over three thousand. You
may have it all if you give me written consent to marry Henry.”

After
two strong puffs, Lord Oslan pulled the pipe from his teeth. “You think you can
bribe me, Isabelle? You’ve hated me—despised me—even when I’ve given you food
and shelter for almost two decades. Should I feel shame for wanting to keep
your honor and name intact for you and your children?”

Isabelle
wanted to scream about how he cared not one whit for her or her children, but
held her tongue. Henry had his eyes closed, rubbing his temples. Lord Oslan
took another long puff before speaking.

“Think
of me however you like, but always remember that you are ungrateful and
unworthy of what I’ve already given you.” The pipe in his mouth trembled up and
down with his jaw, and the spit that had formed at the corner of his lips flew
as he spoke. “You will never see the day when I allow you to bribe me with
money that is legally mine!”

“Go
to the city officials. Order your investigation. Henry and I will hide the
gold.”

“And
by the time the magistrates decide anything we’ll be gone,” Henry added.

“And
good luck finding someone who cares enough to help you,” Isabelle finished.

Lord
Oslan’s face reddened once more. His teeth clamped down on the pipe as he
sputtered twice and finally hissed, “I am through being the pauper nobleman. I
have played that role for thirty years. I’ve tolerated the smirks and comments
from my own peers, and will not stand for it another day. Not one more day.
Hear me?” He stamped his foot hard enough to shake the room. “Do you hear me? I
will have that money! Now. Get. Out. GET OUT!”

Henry
and Isabelle took hands and left through the back of the manor. The rain had
lessened, but not stopped. When they crossed the hedge, Isabelle’s pace slowed,
unable to put up a front of strength any longer. Henry helped her to the
ground, not worrying about ruining her dress now with all its stains and tears.
Then he put her head against his chest and held her, stroking her hair as he
did so. Listening to Henry’s steady heartbeat calmed her. As he whispered to
her, telling her things would turn out alright, she believed him. When she
pulled away, she kissed him fiercely.

“Thank
you.”

Henry
took her face in his hands. “I’m so sorry about your mother. Brandol told me
the moment I returned home. I came as quickly as I could.”

Isabelle
nodded quickly to tell him she was fine. She brushed away her tears before he
could do it.

“You
can’t go back there,” he said. “He wanted to kill you.”

“What
choice do I have?”

“Isabelle,
you are not going back!”

A
sad laugh came from her. “Everything I own is there. Look at the state of me!
What am I going to do?”

“We’ll
think of something.” His hand caressed her cheek. She closed her eyes. “But
it’s no place for you anymore. I won’t feel safe until you’ve left that house
forever.”

Her
eyes opened again. “Are you suggesting what it sounds like?”

Henry
nodded solemnly and pulled a long piece of grass from the lawn. “Yes. We’re
leaving as soon as possible.”

“You
can’t say that, Henry. It’s not that simple.”

“Why
not?”

“What
about Brandol or your apprentices? Where will they find work? What will you
tell Maggie? Will she come with us?”

“I
will answer all those questions as soon as I can.”

It
amazed her that they had so quickly come to terms with leaving Richterton. They
had discussed it on occasion, but it had always been one of those ideas she
believed would never really happen.

“I
have—I have so many questions—so many thoughts running through my head right
now, I can hardly think clearly.”

Henry
kissed her. “Share them with me.”

Isabelle
took a breath, which helped focus her mind. “My mother’s funeral, how will I
plan it? Where will I sleep until we leave? What will I wear if I can’t go back
home? Where will we end up? What will we do when we get there? How will we be
married?”

“Alright,
alright,” Henry laughed. “Not so many at once. You’ll stay in Maggie’s room
with her. As for your things, Maggie or Ruther may have some ideas, or we’ll
buy you new clothes at the markets. I’m certain we can arrange your mother’s
funeral together. Maggie will want to help, too.”

Henry
pulled her in for a tight hug. Crunching grass on the Oslan’s side of the hedge
startled them. Henry stood up and moved between Isabelle and the hedge, his
sword raised, but his face white and strained.

“Hello?”
he called out.

“Miss
Isabelle?” Norbin asked as he came through the hedge. “Is that you?”

Isabelle
exhaled her relief. “Yes, Norbin, I’m here.”

“Thank
the heavens you weren’t hurt, young lady!” her butler cried in a cracking
voice. “Your father was fit to kill.” He emerged on the other side still wet,
muddy, winded, and flushed from neck to ears. “He left . . . moments ago.
Ordered me to pack his clothes. Then he said to prepare the carriage. When I’d
finished, he left without another word to me. Never seen anything like it. I
thought now would be the best time to move Lady Oslan to the cellar where it’s
cooler until the undertaker can come for her.”

The
three of them bore Lady Oslan’s body from her chamber, down the stairs.
Isabelle’s wrapping held up well, and they carried her with all the respect
they could. As they moved past the den to the kitchen where the cellar stairs
were found, something struck Isabelle’s eye.

“Henry,
look!” she cried.

On
the wall above the mantle of the fireplace, instead of four handsome frames,
there hung three, and only two of these frames now held canvases. Lady Oslan’s
portrait and frame were both gone. Isabelle recognized the remains of both in
the crackling fire. Far more alarming was that the portrait of Isabelle,
commissioned by her mother only a year ago, had been hastily cut out.

“Did
you see him do this, Norbin?” Henry asked.

“No,
Master Henry. As I said, he ordered me to pack his belongings.”

They
stared for a moment longer at the wall that now seemed strangely empty, then
continued through the kitchen and into the cellar. The room was dark, cold, and
smelled of dried fruit. As Isabelle rested her mother’s body down on a long
table, her mind held so many questions. Foremost among them were these: where
had her father gone, and what had he done with her portrait?