Linda Barlow (25 page)

"Oh Christ," said Roger softly. The look he gave Alexandra was a mixture of annoyance and forbearance. And perhaps–even still–a touch of mirth. "Put that weapon down and defend me with the truth, my Amazon. This is your doing."

"I know." She was miserable. "Forgive me."

"Take him," Douglas ordered his men.

When one of them pulled out wrist irons, Roger grimaced and said, "That won't be necessary, dammit," but the man closed in on him while another grabbed Roger's arms from behind and tried to hold him.

"Don't!" Alexandra sensed the coming explosion from the look in Roger's eyes. It was too late. Roger whirled on the man behind him and struck him in the throat. As he reeled backwards, Roger high-kicked him in the head, and he slumped to the floor unconscious. It happened so fast that the others were paralyzed for an instant; then they all jumped forward. Hands tightening on her purloined weapon, Alexandra too would have leapt into the fray, had her father not seized and held her.

"He's hurt! They'll kill him!"

"I doubt it," said Charles as Roger flipped one of the men over his shoulder and snatched his weapon to defend himself against the other three. One gamely tried to engage him while Roger knocked the sword out of the hand of another. The third began to edge toward the hearth to get in back of the prisoner. Sparring with the others, Roger ignored him until he was out of sight, then unexpectedly twisted and kicked the man hard in the groin. The unfortunate soldier screamed, fell backward upon some of the smoldering coals of last night's fire, and shrieked again.

A cursing armsman rushed at Roger with his sword swinging, but his quarry ducked out of range, his sword held ready to defend himself. With his free hand Roger grabbed a jar from Merwynna's herb shelves. "This is acid, and someone is about to get it in his face." He glanced over at Sir Charles. "Are you going to call them off, or does your desire for entertainment extend to watching the death or disfigurement of your men?"

"I'm admiring your ingenuity. One unarmed, disheveled man with a bandage on his hand efficiently dealing with five soldiers. How often does one get to see such a spectacle? Ten to one there's no acid in that jar."

"Shall I fling it at Alexandra, then?"

"No," said her father, trying to thrust her in back of him. She wouldn't go. He barked an order at his men, who retreated slightly. They were all swearing under their breaths, and Alexandra could tell from their faces that they'd like nothing better than to crush this young man who'd made such a fool of them, and kill him if they could.

"What the devil do you intend to do?" Douglas asked. "What we want from you is an explanation. If you're really not guilty of any crime, you'll give us one."

"I've no objection to answering Alix’s ridiculous charges; in fact, there are one or two points about my brother's death that I would like clarified. But I refuse to be manhandled or clapped into irons. You have my word that I will not attempt to flee."

Douglas seemed to consider. Alexandra noted the way his shrewd eyes assessed his adversary. She thought she recognized a spark of admiration for the man who, as a boy, had been the closest thing he'd had to a son. "Very well."

Roger unstoppered the jar and poured some pungent ointment into his hands, then rubbed a little on his sweating face and neck. Alexandra felt her father's big body relax.

"And I wish to hear no more in the way of insults to Alexandra's honor. I have not relieved her of her maidenhead, much though I might have been tempted." He gave her a bracing smile as he spoke. "You have my solemn word on it."

Charles looked back and forth between them, saying, "I pray God you speak the truth."

Alexandra was a little surprised at his warmth. Her father spent so much time away that she sometimes doubted he cared very much about her. But he seemed relieved to hear that she had not been villainously raped.

"We do," she confirmed.

"You'd better," said her father.

* * *

Two hours later they were all assembled in the great hall at Whitcombe—Roger, Alexandra, her father, his father, Dorcas, assorted men-at-arms, the baron's physician, and, sitting quietly near the hearth, Priscilla Martin. "What's she doing here?" Alexandra asked her father. "I thought this was meant to be a private inquiry."

"Richard has insisted upon her presence. I don't know why. Sit down, Alexandra. And don't speak unless you're spoken to, if that is possible."

Alexandra collapsed on a bench, feeling weary and depressed. She had slept very little during the night, kept awake by her awareness of Roger's body stretched out on his blanket only a few feet away. He hadn't touched her again, and on the long trek home through the forest this morning, he'd ignored her. She felt like a patient who's just been diagnosed with the plague.

Alan had been put to bed. Master Theobald, the baron's physician, had expressed his doubts over the job she'd done of setting the lad's leg, but he hadn't ventured to reset it, thank God. He was a thin-faced, lugubrious man who drank too much and always seemed surprised when his patients recovered. A Calvinist like his master, he regarded illness as one of the scourges with which the Lord punished the wicked. If you were taken sick, you had probably done something to deserve it. Alexandra knew this wasn't true. She herself had been wicked on numerous occasions, yet she was rarely in need of the physician's dubious arts. Even the cold she'd had yesterday—which by rights ought to be much worse today—seemed mysteriously improved.

Dorcas came to sit beside her. "My poor girl, thank God you're safe and well. I've sent word to your mother. We've all been frantic with worry."

"I'm sorry everybody was so concerned. It was stupid of me. I was wrong about Roger, and I've gotten him into this intolerable mess. I feel like crawling under the trestle boards with the dogs and staying there until I die."

"Don't fret. Richard knows Roger had nothing to do with William's death."

But when Alexandra looked at the baron, standing stiffly on the dais at the end of the hall, staring without love or pity at his wayward second son, she felt far from convinced.

When the inquiry began, Roger made no effort to smooth the waters between his father and himself. Instead, followed closely by two cautious Douglas men-at-arms, he strolled up to the dais to address the baron: "You've got your wish, after all: here I stand, accused of murdering your eldest son and heir. And you're to hear my case? Surely I'm entitled to a stricter degree of impartiality. You, Father, would hardly hesitate to condemn me."

"If there proves to be a case against you, you will be remanded for trial to the district assizes."

"There to rot in prison, no doubt. Very well, let's get on with this farce. Where are my accusers?"

Everyone looked at Alexandra, who flushed. "As I've already told my father, I have no accusation to make."

The baron held up the papers containing her allegations. "And what of your suspicions regarding Will Trevor's death?"

"A fantasy, my lord, which seemed to require a villain. Because I was angry with Roger, I cast him in that role. Those are my private papers. It amazes me that anyone should have taken that nonsense seriously. I absolutely reject every word."

Sir Charles came forward and looked from the tall dark-haired man to the red-haired girl. "There is the possibility that she is under duress. God only knows how he may have threatened her."

"Alexandra, you need have no fear," said the baron. "Speak freely, please. He cannot harm you."

Roger made a disgusted sound. "Show them the bruises I left on your body when I tortured you, Alix. Sweet Christ!"

"I am not under duress. If I still believed him guilty of killing Will, no threat would prevent me from saying so."

"Whether or not my daughter wishes to accuse your son, Richard, there have been two deaths here recently, neither of which has been entirely explained. Although William's death was ruled an accident at the time, the mysteries surrounding it were never cleared up: Where was he going at midnight on the night of June 12th? Why was he, a man who rarely tasted spirits, so full of drink? What was the immediate cause of his violent fall? Whether she likes it or not, Alexandra's speculations on these matters have raised questions that demand answers."

"Very well," the baron said. "Proceed."

Sir Charles read a passage from Alexandra's notes suggesting that Roger's secret arrival at Whitcombe had been the cause of his elder brother's odd behavior. Roger denied it. He'd been out of the country at the time of Will's accident. He had papers documenting the arrival date of the
Argo,
his ship. If Alexandra believed him to have returned earlier, she was mistaken.

And so it went on, all her accusations—the broken dagger, Ned's terror—and Roger's calm, mocking dismissal of each point of her elaborate case against him. Alexandra heard the proceedings through a kind of haze. Her eyes saw not the great hall of Whitcombe Castle, but the woodland cottage where Roger had called her his beloved and touched her with passion. Her body flashed with excitement as she relived the feel of his hands between her legs, the feel of his mouth. She recalled the shivery ecstasy he'd led her to, that incredible sensation of falling off the world. She wanted it again. She wanted him to fall with her.

But he'd made it clear he didn't want her. Not for that, not for anything.

They were questioning her now about Ned's death. Her head ached as her father went over and over the events leading up to yesterday. Master Theobald, the physician, had examined the boy's body. He came forward now to say that Ned had died of asphyxiation. The rope burns around the neck were consistent with what would be expected of a hanging. In the opinion of George Dawes, the baron's master-at-arms, the knot that comprised the noose was a clumsy one, hardly the type an experienced seaman would venture to make. In other words, there was nothing to suggest foul play.

Alexandra frowned as all this was revealed. She was still puzzled about Ned. They'll bury you in unconsecrated ground for committing the crime of self-slaughter, she thought to herself. Did you really kill yourself? I can't believe that. Why is it that I still feel there's something very wrong here, something we're not managing to uncover?

It was apparent, when the questioning wound down, that despite Roger's calm and rational answers, Sir Charles wasn't entirely satisfied, either. "The fact remains that two young men, neither of whom should have died for many years, have recently met unusual and sinister ends," he said. "At the same time, after years of absence, Roger Trevor has reappeared to take his place as his father's heir. Although we have not been able to prove any connection between his return and these two deaths, I suggest the matter calls for further investigation."

There was a muttering among everybody in the hall. The baron raised his hand for quiet. "Enough," he said loudly. He looked angry. "I have listened patiently so far. I have heard nothing which convinces me that there is any substance to any of these ridiculous charges against my son."

Roger looked at him in surprise. Alexandra thought she saw his tan face flush slightly. He clearly hadn't expected his father to speak for him.

The baron went on, "I am well aware that once such allegations are made, they tend to smolder. For this reason, I intend to put an end to the mystery concerning Will's death, even though the information I am about to disclose will bring pain to the hearts of at least two people among you."

The baron had everybody's attention now. There was an almost palpable tension in the hall. Alexandra felt a series of small shivers run over her skin—a kind of premonition. The hall was silent as Roger's father continued, "Will's death was indeed accidental. The reasons for his drinking and his decision to ride out that night have been known to me since shortly after he died. I have maintained silence on the matter in deference to the wishes of a young woman who did not wish to have her role in the affair disclosed. She has promised to speak out, however, if her evidence becomes necessary. I think she will agree with me that the time for complete honesty has come."

Before he had finished these words, Alexandra's fascinated gaze had swung to Pris Martin. She was the only young woman present to whom he could possibly be referring.

"Mistress Martin, I must ask you to step up here, please."

Pris Martin put down the embroidery she'd been working on and walked slowly up to the dais. As the baron took the widow's hand, Alexandra caught Roger's eye. He shrugged and raised his eyebrows in a gesture of puzzlement.

Dorcas followed Priscilla, putting her arm around the young woman's waist. Dear, kind Dorcas. Pris seemed to welcome her support. The baron gave her a few moments to collect herself, then said, "Please tell us the nature of your connection with my eldest son."

There was a moment of silence during which Alexandra's breath was suspended. She could feel herself leaning forward on the bench; beside her she sensed her father's alertness. The premonition of disaster grew stronger. It occurred to her that if Pris was one of the two people whom this revelation would hurt, she must be the other.

Pris Martin pulled herself together and spoke out in a firm voice: "I loved your eldest son and he loved me. Together, we were expecting a child."

"Jesu," Alexandra breathed. Her father took her hand and squeezed it; her fingers clung to his.