The Beauty Bride (The Jewels of Kinfairlie) (11 page)

“Come
with me for a moment,” Rosamunde said, her manner mysterious and her voice low.
Madeline’s sisters continued to the ladies’ chamber, unaware that they were
unattended.

“No
harm will come to them,” Rosamunde said when Madeline hesitated. “I would
fulfill my pledge to your mother.”

Madeline
needed no more persuasion than that to follow her aunt. Rosamunde was garbed in
a splendid kirtle of deep sapphire blue, its hem thick with golden embroidery,
and its cut favoring the lithe curves of her figure. Her girdle was rich beyond
belief and studded with gems; her hair hung loose to her hips like a cascade of
rose gold. Although dressed in feminine splendor, there was a determination to
Rosamunde’s stride that was unfitting for a lady.

Rosamunde
led Madeline to the laird’s solar with a familiarity unexpected. Madeline’s
eyes widened, and she fought to hold her silence. She had heard rumors about
the intimacy of the older pair, of course, but she had always believed such
tales untrue.

Rosamunde
turned and smiled. “In here, we can be certain to be alone. This is a
responsibility to be discharged in privacy.”

Tynan’s
chamber was richly adorned and a fire had already been kindled in the fireplace
for his comfort. It blazed merrily, casting the chamber in a welcoming glow.
Maiden and aunt made as one for the pair of stools set close to the hearth.

Rosamunde
shivered. “I shall never grow accustomed to the chill of this country,” she
muttered, then pulled a velvet sack from her lavish skirts. “This is for you.”
She smiled at Madeline as she placed the small bag in her hands.

The
sack was square, less in each dimension than the first two digits of her
finger. Madeline could hide it easily in her palm and she marveled at the
richness of its purple hue. It was embroidered in gold so richly that it was a
treasure in itself, the gold thread making a radiant star against the velvet. A
twisted golden cord fastened the small sack closed, the cord’s length
sufficient that the sack could be hung around one’s neck like a gem. It was
light, so light she assumed it empty.

“Is
this silken velvet?” Madeline asked with awe.

Rosamunde
laughed. “Doubtless, but this is a mere repository. The true gift is inside.”

Madeline
regarded her aunt for a moment, then loosed the cord.

“Use
care!” Rosamunde counseled and bent closer.

Madeline
tipped the small sack and a sphere the size of her fingernail spilled into her
palm. It might have been a bead of water, but it was hard and gleamed in the firelight.

“It
is called the Tear of the Virgin,” Rosamunde breathed. “And said to have been
shed by Mary at the crucifixion.”

Madeline
regarded the gem in wonder as her aunt spoke.

“Though
Mary knew that Jesus died to save all of mankind, he was yet her only son: she
mourned him, as any mother would do. And it is said that God looked down upon
this weak vessel of a woman, her tears shedding like gems, and he felt
compassion that she endured such loss for the gain of her fellows. It is said
that He turned four and twenty of her tears to gems, in tribute to her grief.”

“There
are more of these marvels?”

Rosamunde
shrugged. “I cannot say. This is only one I have ever seen, and I only heard
the tale from your grandfather, Merlyn.”

“But
I thought Grandfather shunned the relics?”

“He
shunned the family trade in them, to be sure, but he had a reverence for those
he thought to be genuine.” Rosamunde gestured to the gem in Madeline’s palm and
smiled in recollection. “This was one for which he professed a fondness. Indeed,
he gave it to your mother on the night before her nuptials.”

Madeline
glanced up in surprise, and Rosamunde nodded. “Merlyn told her, she said, that
he would have given this to his daughter upon her wedding. Since he had no
blood daughter, he hoped that Catherine would accept it. Merlyn and Ysabella
considered your mother as their daughter, for she wed their son, Roland.”

Madeline’s
hand closed over the gem, seemingly of its own will, so precious was any link
to her mother. She fought against her own tears, so potent were the presences
of her grandparents and parents in this chamber. She knew that Merlyn and
Ysabella had rebuilt Ravensmuir and occupied this chamber themselves for many
years. She knew that it had been granted to her parents for their nuptial night
and that Merlyn had oft jested that his grandson, Alexander, had been wrought
in his own bed.

She
swallowed with an effort, feeling the embrace of ghosts around her. “And now
you grant it to me afore my own wedding,” she said, her voice husky.

“Your
mother desired as much.” Rosamunde settled back and stared into the flames.
“You will not recall this, for little has been said of it of late, but I was
one of your godmothers.”

“You
were?” Madeline was surprised yet again, though the merriment in Rosamunde’s
eyes made her believe the tale.

“Against
all expectation!” Rosamunde chuckled. “Though I was not your mother’s first
choice, and I was not granted the task alone, even then, I am the last of your
godmothers surviving.” She sobered. “Indeed, I am the last of all women charged
with your upbringing to survive.”

Madeline
glanced away, feeling her mother’s absence keenly.

Rosamunde’s
hand fell over her own, its warmth a comfort. Madeline wondered whether she
imagined that her aunt’s voice was suddenly hoarse. “I have always had a
fondness for you, Madeline. Perhaps your mother saw into my own heart when she
granted me this precious duty.” Rosamunde gave Madeline’s hand a minute
squeeze. “But the fact remains that at your christening, your mother entrusted
this gem to my care. She asked me to grant it to you on the eve afore your
nuptials, just as Merlyn had granted it to her, and to tell of the gem. It was
the sole duty she expected of me, this she said, and thus I fulfill it in her
honor.”

Madeline
swallowed and looked back at her aunt. “What of the gem?”

“It
is said to possess a kind of power, though I cannot vouch for the truth of it.
Your mother confided only the tale to me, that I might deliver it to you with
the gem. It is said that the Tear feels the weight of sorrow, in keeping with
its origins, and that it will change hue to warn its bearer of ill tidings.
Perhaps it is Mary herself who would warn the bearer. I cannot say.”

Madeline
feared then that her intent to escape Ravensmuir and avoid her wedding ceremony
was evident to her perceptive aunt, and that Rosamunde meant to dissuade her.

But
Rosamunde frowned at Madeline’s closed fist. “It is said that the stone will
turn black when ill fortune lies ahead for its bearer, and that it will shine
when all will be well.”

“Do
you believe as much?”

Rosamunde
smiled. “There are many things that make little sense to us, many mysteries
that may never be solved. Perhaps this is one of them; perhaps it is but a
pretty quartz gem with a tale. Either way, you hold a token of goodwill from
your mother in your hand, an heirloom passed through your family, and that is
of no small merit.”

Madeline
caressed the gem in her grip. “Am I to grant it to my first daughter on the eve
of her wedding?”

Rosamunde
smiled. “I would wager that Merlyn would approve of that.”

Madeline
glanced away as she blinked back her tears and fingered the cord. “Did
Maman
wear it?”

Rosamunde
nodded. “Catherine wore the gem on her breast on her wedding day. Though I was
not here, it was said that the Tear shone with a radiance to rival the sun.”

“Then
perhaps its power is genuine.” Madeline’s fingers fairly itched to open and
reveal the hue of the stone, but she wanted to view it alone.

“Perhaps.
Your parents did possess a great love for each other, one that only grew as the
years passed. Remember them merry, Madeline. It is the best remembrance you can
grant.”

The
women sat in silence for a moment as Madeline struggled to do as she was
bidden. Their deaths were so recent that she had not begun to remember her
mother’s joyful laugh, or the way her father’s eyes had twinkled when he teased
any one of them.

Rosamunde
cleared her throat. “Catherine also wrought this sack for the gem, with her own
needle, to ensure its safety. Hidden or displayed, she wore it night and day
until you were born.” Rosamunde pushed to her feet, her eyes shining with
unshed tears. “Then she entrusted it to me, though I never imagined I would
deliver it without her beside me.”

“Rosamunde,
you were the sole person in the hall who admitted to knowing Rhys FitzHenry,”
Madeline said softly.

Rosamunde
nodded, and waited, eyes bright.

“Alexander
said he was not invited.”

“Not
by Alexander. He arrived earlier on a mission of his own, and summoned me. He
asked for the reason of the gathering, and when I told him of it, admitted to
curiosity.” Rosamunde shrugged. “And so I saw him admitted, with no realization
that he too had need of a wife. Rhys has always been most solitary.”

“But
you did not forbid him from participating.”

Rosamunde
smiled. “It seemed to me, Madeline, that you might die of boredom wed to a man
of Alexander’s choosing.”

“Will
I die of some other malady wed to this traitor?”

Rosamunde
laughed beneath her breath, a most odd reaction in Madeline’s thinking. “A
man’s repute is not the same as his truth, Madeline.” She rose and smoothed her
skirts, which surely were in need of no smoothing, then cleared her throat. “I
must attend your sisters. With the hall full of men with their bellies full of
drink, I would ensure that they are all maidens on the morrow.”

“I
would sit here for a moment.” Madeline raised her fist, tightened around the
gem, to her lips. The Tear seemed to throb within her grasp.

Rosamunde
touched her shoulder with affection. “Do not put too much stock in old tales,
Madeline. A marriage is what man and wife make of it, and Rhys has spent
sufficient coin that his attentiveness should be assured.”

It
was not the most reassuring thing Rosamunde might have said, but she departed
in a swirl of silk afore Madeline could ask for more details of Rhys.

Not
that it mattered overmuch. Madeline would be gone before the morrow, gone
before her nuptials, gone before Rhys could claim her hand forevermore. First
she would look into the gem, though, and hope for some assurance. She held her
breath, unfurled her fingers and let the firelight touch the gem within her
hand.

The
Tear might have been wrought of obsidian, so dark was it. The gem was black to
its very core, with nary a flicker of light within its depths. Madeline’s heart
froze, then raced. She pushed the stone back into the small velvet sack with
shaking fingers, secured it, then looped the cord around her neck.

She
had to flee. She had chosen aright, for even the stone forecast an ill fate if
she remained at Ravensmuir and wed Rhys FitzHenry.

* * *

Chapter Four

Ravensmuir
was silent, save for the snores of men and hounds. Madeline could hear the
patter of rain upon the stones, and the lap of the sea against the shore. The
wind had died down, though still it rained mightily.

Her
sisters slept deeply, their pallets surrounding her own. The younger girls had
been particularly excited this night at the prospect of a wedding, and had
taken cursedly long to settle onto their pallets. Elizabeth in particular had
insisted upon talking to herself, as if she was truly talking to the invisible
fairy. Madeline had been certain that the girl would never fall asleep.

But
now, in the quiet of the night, the sole obstacle to Madeline’s departure was her
aunt Rosamunde, who had declared herself sentry over them all.

Madeline
rolled over and peered through her lashes in the direction of her aunt. That
woman sat on a bench by the portal. Rosamunde yawned fully, then folded her
arms across her chest, her eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Madeline
bit her lip, considering her course.

Neither
of them saw the spriggan Darg, who danced around Rosamunde with vengeful
delight. Neither of them saw Darg snarl and knot and tangle the golden ribbon
emanating from Rosamunde - which neither of them saw either - and neither of
them heard the fairy’s spiteful little song.

Perhaps
it was just as well. Darg did not have a melodious voice.

Madeline
had just decided to lie to her aunt, and claim that she had to go to the privy,
when there was a light knock upon the portal. It was so faint a sound that
Madeline barely heard it. She saw her aunt turn, saw the heavy wood door open
slightly.

“Surely
you do not mean to sit here sleepless all the night long?” someone asked in a
soft whisper. It was a man’s voice, though Madeline could not see who spoke.
She watched Rosamunde smile and knew she had seen that smile afore.