Into the Dim (32 page)

“What?” I swiped at my chin. “Do I have a smudge or something?”

“Yes,” he said in a sultry tone that rumbled along my nerve endings. “Right there.” He edged closer and brushed aside a wayward curl Phoebe had left hanging by my ear. When his thumb skated along the edge of my lower lip, something pulsed deep inside me, stretching, waking.

The harried guards at the door barely gave us a second look. Revelers tumbled out of the packed Great Hall into the entrance portico. Masks—bedecked and feathered, or with beaked noses and grotesque horns—shielded all the partygoers.

“Well met.” A sloppy drunk in yellow hose, purple tunic, ridiculous spangled mask careened over and slapped Collum hard on the back. “God save the King, eh?”

When Collum didn't answer, the man frowned. Staggering a bit, he peered up at Collum, face hidden beneath a plain cloth mask and cowled hood. “Did you hear me, man? I said God save His Grace our good King Henry.”

I froze, but Bran didn't bat an eyelash. “God save the King!” he boomed, and plucked the goblet of wine from the man's hand. He downed the contents, belched loudly, and swiped a hand across his mouth before gesturing dismissively to Collum. “You must forgive my brother, good sir. He is naught but a feeble idiot and cannot speak.”

Collum's head shot up at that, but the man only guffawed. “Perhaps on Yule Night the king will declare him lord of misrule. Come”—he snatched hold of Collum's arm and tried to tow him toward the Great Hall—“let us introduce him to the king now. Oh, this will be right good fun.”

A ball of terror rose in my throat. If the king laid eyes on Collum, it was all over. He'd be cast back into that hole and hung. Collum shoved the drunk away. The man tripped over his own feet and stumbled back, affronted.

“Here, now. What's this?” he thundered, swaying. “Do you know who I am? Why, you bumbling imbecile! I shall have you thrown in chains for laying hands on me!”

My feet felt stuck to the floor. I couldn't breathe. Phoebe, however, was magnificent. Without missing a beat, she inserted herself under the man's arm.

“Milord,” she cooed, “surely I am more interesting than some addle-witted fool? Perhaps, if you were to go inside and grab another goblet of wine, we might share it?”

The drunk's angry snarl was immediately replaced by lust as his gaze dropped from Phoebe's upturned face to her low-cut bodice.

Collum let out an agitated rumble. The man's attention wavered, but Phoebe was on it. She rose on tiptoe and planted a kiss right on the creep's wine-stained mouth. His glassy eyes widened behind the mask.

“Aye.” He draped an arm around my friend's narrow shoulders. “Right you are, mistress. A cup of spiced wine would go a long way to wet this parched throat.”

Phoebe ducked from under his arm but gave him a hearty smack on the butt. “Away you go. Find us a cozy spot, aye? I'll be right along.”

Drunkie lolled away, leering.

I gaped at my friend. “Wow.
That
was amazing.”

Phoebe gave a saucy wink and with an exaggerated sway of her narrow hips, sashayed toward the steps.

Watching her performance, Bran and I exchanged a grin. When his arm brushed against mine, a little thrill ruffled through me. Collum groaned as he followed after his sister.

“Come on, dove,” Bran said, tucking my hand into the crook of his elbow. “Let's go save your mum.”

Still smiling, feeling lighter than I had in days, I hurried up the steps toward the queen's chambers.

Eleanor was waiting for us. The moment we presented ourselves, she curtly dismissed her ladies and servants. The high noblewomen of England glared as they filed by in their brilliant courtly best. The servants followed. One, in a plain white wimple, ducked her face as she scurried out the door.

Sister Hectare reclined on a lush divan at the end of the queen's bed, furs piled on her tiny form. Except for two hectic spots on her protruding cheekbones, her skin was ashen.

She looks worse. So much worse.

The cough confirmed it. Queen Eleanor herself held the linen cloth to her mentor's mouth. When she drew it away, it was spotted with red.

“She overtaxed herself.” The queen fussed, mopping at the nun's brow. “I told you the coronation would be too much for you. You are ill and should've stayed abed.”

“And miss the moment the crown of England was placed on my sweet girl's head?” Hectare croaked. “Not likely.”

The queen's regal manner had morphed the instant her ladies left. Now she just looked like a scared little girl. Her voice verged on panic as she muttered, “Where are Rachel and the apothecary with that tisane? They should have been here long ago.”

“Your Grace.” The words came out squeaky, too high. “Where is my . . . cousin? Where is Lady Babcock?”

Disgust rippled across the queen's lips. “Sir Babcock, that horrible little cretin, claims his wife too ill to leave her chambers. Even at his queen's command.” Her thin lips pressed white together. “But worry not, I've sent my man to fetch her. She shall be here anon. No one disobeys my order.”

My diaphragm constricted, pressing against my spine.
Too
ill?

The queen scanned the room. Her gaze lingered on Collum, his face shaded by the cloak. “Who is that man? Why does he hide his face?”

I looked to Phoebe and her cloaked, hooded brother, clustered together near the now-closed door.

“He is with us, Your Grace.” I so hoped that would be explanation enough.

Eleanor stared hard at Collum for a moment as my pulse pounded in my temples. Yes, the queen had agreed to help us, but I wasn't sure how far that help would extend if she knew Collum was the very thief who'd stolen from her husband.

Hectare squinted blearily at Collum, then came to our rescue. “Never mind him, my girl. It is time. Give them the dagger.”

All movement in the chamber ceased. I don't think anyone even breathed.

“It's here?” Bran asked in a reverent whisper.

We'd been prepared to beg. To somehow make them understand how important it was that we took the dagger with us. If that didn't work, we'd have had to steal it. With my mother's bracelet gone, it was the only way.

Hectare nudged the queen with a gnarled hand. Eleanor stood, then from a nearby table retrieved a carved ebony box. As her ermine cloak glided along the rushes, a delicate scent of summer roses and nutty herbs drifted up.

When Eleanor withdrew the blade from its sheath, a walnut-size opal seized the candlelight and cast it back in blue and green shimmers that sparked across the beamed ceiling and tapestried walls. It was as though someone had captured the moon and imbedded it in the golden hilt.

My hand flew to my chest. Beneath the fabric of my bodice, the lodestone warmed against my skin. Bran reached up to clasp the cloak pin at his throat.

“My bracelet,” Phoebe murmured.

From his place near the door, Collum quietly studied the ring on his right hand.

“Yes,” Hectare said into the silence. “Our world is not yet ready for such a thing as this. It holds a power the ignorant might use for ill. I think it best that it leave this place. But . . . may I see it for a moment first?”

The queen stared down at the dagger, mesmerized.

“My child?”

The sister struggled upright on her cot, her stern command breaking the dagger's hold on Eleanor. With a grimace, she thrust it back into the sheath and handed it to
Hectare.

The nun slid the blade out just enough to examine the hilt. She tilted her head, frowning. “I must have misremembered. I thought . . .” Hectare pursed her lips, and a thousand wrinkles radiated outward. “No matter.” She slipped the blade home and held it out to me. “This old memory is not what it used to be. Take it.”

Blindly, I snatched the dagger and handed it off to Collum. He stared down at the blade. I saw his shoulders bunch and his head bow as he rubbed a thumb over the stone.

Something was gnawing at me, though. Something about the stone. I tried to focus, but as each moment ticked by, a queasy trepidation began to build inside me.

Why isn't my mom here yet?

“Hectare would speak with the two of you,” Eleanor called, waving Bran and me over. The queen looked wrung out, heart-bruised. “Do not tax her,” she warned in a voice cracked with grief. “For I think she does not have much time left. I must find out where Rachel has gotten to. It is not like the girl to tarry.”

The queen's footsteps dragged as she went to confer with the guard at her door. Bran and I knelt by the nun's cot. When I looked into her face, grief coiled through me at the dusky color around her lips.

“I've given much thought to you since we met, child.” Sister Hectare spoke in a crackle. Paper ruffling in a breeze. “In my long life, the Lord has seen fit to grant me many gifts. When I look at those two over there”—she gestured to where Collum and Phoebe spoke quietly together—“it is as though I am seeing them through a long tunnel. It was the same with this Celia.”

She coughed, wheezy and weak. Her rheumy gaze switched back and forth between Bran and me. “The two of you now, you are clearer to me.” Hectare reached out and clasped my hands between hers. Her palms felt like silk and sandpaper. “The same yet different from the others.”

A chill raced across my shoulders. I glanced at Bran, but his eyes were riveted on Hectare.

“None of you belong here.” My hands bunched inside the old woman's skeletal grip. Her gaze fixed with Bran's as she finished. “Though you two are not so far away as the others. It is difficult to explain, though I see in the young lord's eyes he knows of what I speak, yes?”

Bran's response was so quiet, I barely heard. “I do, Sister.”

Spent, Hectare fell back on the pillows. Exhaustion pulled at her parchment lids, but the corners of her mouth lifted.

I turned to Bran, but he wouldn't meet my eyes. “What's she talking about?”

“Ah,” came Hectare's creaky whisper, “the girl does not know.”

Bran closed his eyes. “No, Sister,” he said. “Not yet.”

B
EFORE
I
COULD ASK EXACTLY
WHAT
I
DIDN
'
T KNOW
, voices sounded outside the door. Collum stiffened, but Eleanor hustled to open it herself. William Lucie rushed in, cradling someone in his arms. She was hooded and cloaked, but I would've known her anywhere. Pain struck low and hard when I saw the coarse ropes knotted around her ankles. The severed ends swayed as she struggled weakly in the soldier's arms.

“No,” my mother whimpered. “Take me back. He'll punish me again. I said I'd be good. I swore it. Please . . .”

The queen stepped forward, her voice glacial. “What is the meaning of this, Captain?”

He laid my mother gently on a chair draped with soft animal skins and pulled back the hood and cloak. Her eyes were red rimmed and wild as she slumped there, dressed only in a long white shift.

William dropped to one knee to address the queen, his kind eyes pinched in pity. “I found Lady Babcock in her chambers, as you said, Your Grace. Her guard is dispatched. The lady had been most ill-used. Bound to her bed and . . .” A disgusted exhale through his nose. “She's been scourged, Your Grace. Her back is naught but a shredded mess.”

Phoebe's hands covered her mouth. I wanted to run to my mother, who cringed and huddled over her round belly. But my knees had turned to water and my lungs to empty paper sacks.

Eleanor stiffened in outrage. “What? And she with child? This will not stand! Not in my kingdom.”

My mother's weak voice filtered to me. “Celia told Babcock the baby wasn't his. That he'd been cuckolded. She
watched
while he did this to me. If the baby was a boy, he said he'd drown it in the river and lock me in my room until he got another on me. Take me back, please. Don't you see? She'll tell him I tried to run. She'll come after Hope.”

Bran, suddenly at my side, gave a moan and dropped his head in his hands.

“Sarah. Sarah, listen to me.” Collum's voice was so tender as he knelt down before her. “Hope's here. She's safe. And we're taking you to Lucinda. We're taking you home.”

She shook her head violently. “No! If I do as she says, she'll leave Hope alone. She swore it.”

Mom rocked forward. The cloak puddled around her hips. And I sucked in all the air in the chamber. All the air in the world.

“No,” Bran whispered.

I closed my eyes, but the image was imprinted forever inside my lids. The back of my mother's shift had been ripped to the waist. The pale, freckled skin beneath was scored with dozens of torn, bloody lash marks.

My mother cried out as the air hit her raw flesh. I stumbled across the room and dropped to my knees beside her as Phoebe moved to the other side.

“What do we do?” My gut rolled at the blood seeping from the rips in her skin. “We need Rachel. She'll know—”

The chamber doors burst inward. Collum whirled and stumbled back as Thomas Becket sauntered in. Four members of the black-clad city watch formed a line behind him, dragging the limp body of Eleanor's guard, his chain mail jangling. Hate, white hot and pure, surged inside me when I saw the pale blond head of Eustace Clarkson move up next to Becket and shove a bound Rachel to her knees. Shuffling in at the rear was Wilifred, the old serving woman who'd been so enamored of Becket back at Baynard's Castle.

“It's as I told you, Father Thomas,” she said, pointing at me. “The girl is here. And I saw this Jewess and Captain Lucie myself, embracing in the hallway less than an hour ago.” She sneered down at Rachel. “Blasphemer.”

William's hand was at his sword. He'd had eyes for no one but Rachel since the second they'd entered.