The Perilous Gard (30 page)

"I hurt it, and Randal had to cut it open for me."

Randal had been glancing from Kate to her sister and back again as if something puzzled or troubled him; but at these words the drift of his thoughts seemed to change. "I did it on All Hallows' Eve," he began proudly. "The night that the Fairy Folk — "

"Mistress Alicia." Sir Geoffrey took hold of the conversation and steered it away from the danger point with a firm hand. "Supper won't be ready until five o'clock and you've a long day's ride behind you. Let Kate take you up to her room to rest on her bed for an hour or two while I see to your father."

Alicia followed Kate obediently up the stairs. "I do like Sir Geoffrey," she remarked, walking into the room, which in some mysterious fashion immediately became her own. "But I like Christopher better. I like Christopher very much . . . Oh Kate, what a bed! It's like lying on a cloud."

"Do you want to sleep for a little? You must be tired. Was it bitterly cold on the road?"

"I don't know about that." Alicia ruffled her bright hair and giggled. "Christopher said I made it seem like summer."

"I can't imagine Christopher ever saying such a thing," said Kate, remembering some of the things he had said to her.

"He's always saying things like that. You know, pretty things. He said to me once that being with me was like being out in the sun and air again when you'd been shut up in a dark place or like feeling well again after you'd had a long illness. Was he ill, Kate? I thought he might have been."

"No. It was only a manner of speaking."

"That's what he said when I asked him, but I wanted to be sure. He was looking dreadfully thin and worn down at first when he came to stay with us in London."

"Did he stay with you in London? I thought he was going to his sister's house."

"He was at his sister's when the Queen died, but after I came home and he met me, Father asked him to stay with us, so that we could all become better acquainted. He'd gone to see Father in the first place to bring him news of you, but after he met me, it was just as if he were one of the family. He and I went for rides, and we sang together in the evenings, and he told me about the manor."

"He told you about the manor?"

"The manor he was buying," said Alicia. "You know."

"Buying?"

"Hadn't you heard? There was some old manor near Sir Geoffrey's house in Norfolk that he wanted, and he was buying it, so — oh, how silly of me! I forgot. We were keeping it a secret. He said I wasn't to tell you."

Kate was beginning to feel as though she were caught in a nightmare version of the old question-and-answer story: What happened while I was away, Tom? The dog died, master. How did the dog die, Tom? When your home burned down, master. How did my home catch on fire, Tom? One of the candles at your wife's funeral, master —

"But he can't have bought the manor," she protested. "Sir Geoffrey said that it would take a fortune to set it to rights, and Christopher hasn't any money to speak of."

"Oh, he does now," said Alicia blithely. "I thought surely you knew about that. Everyone at the court now is looking for precious stones to make New Year's gifts for the Lady Elizabeth at her coronation; and there was some gold collar or other set with rubies that — I don't know just how it came about, but Sir Geoffrey said it was only fair that Christopher should have it to buy the manor if he wanted to. Oh Kate, those rubies! They're huge! Christopher showed me one he was saving out for a betrothal ring to give — but that really is a secret, and I promised him faithfully not to say a single word until everything's settled." She leaned back against her pillows and yawned suddenly, like a sleepy kitten. "I'd like to tell you about the ring, truly I would, but I can't break a promise, can I? You'll be sure to waken me in time for supper?"

"Yes," said Kate.

Alicia smiled up at her. "Dear Kate," she murmured contentedly. "It is so good to have you back. Now that I've been with you for a little, you don't seem so changed as I thought you were."

Kate closed the door behind her and walked away without thinking or caring where she was going. What else was there for her to do? She could not scream. She could not throw herself into the Holy Well lake, as two of the pilgrims had tried to do when they first realized their loss. She could not drag her own sister out of the house and lock the door against her. Presently, she would have to go back to her room and waken Alicia in time for supper. She would have to watch Alicia and Christopher sitting together all the long evening and telling each other secrets. She would have to dance at Alicia's wedding and marvel at the ruby in her ring. She would have to visit Alicia at the manor and hear about the place that she and Christopher had chosen for the new dairy.

Somewhere near her she heard a voice singing, and became aware that she was once again on the dais stairs, looking down into the great hall. Her father and Sir Geoffrey and Christopher had gone, and there was no one left in the hall but Randal, who was still in the corner by the fire with his back to her, crooning to himself.

As they were walking upon the sea-brim,
  (Binoorie, O Binoorie!)
The elder pushed the younger in,
  By the bonny mill dams of Binoorie.
O sister, dear sister, reach me your hand,
  (Binoorie, O Binoorie!)
And you shall have my house and land,
  By the bonny mill dams of Binoorie . . .
 

Kate did not pause to ask Randal what had brought that particular ballad into his mind. She slipped past him softly, before he realized she was there, making for the door to the terrace and the open air beyond it.

Outside on the terrace the winter dusk had begun to close in. There was still enough light to see by, but on that bitter day the castle people were all sheltering from the cold, and the courtyard was as empty and silent as a desert. The silence was so deep that she could even hear, very faintly, the sound of Randal's voice from the hall:

O sister, dear sister, reach me your glove,
  (Binoorie, O Binoorie!)
 
And you shall have my own true love,
  By the bonny mill dams of Binoorie
 

Then, cutting through the distant music, another voice behind her said imperatively:

"Girl!"

Kate turned as if at the flick of a knife and saw what might have been a shadow standing against the wall on the dark side of the oriel window.

"Who's there?" she cried. "Who is it?"

The shadow detached itself from the wall and took the shape of a slight dark woman dressed like a gypsy, with an old red cloak wrapped about her shoulders and a tattered scarf tied over her head. There were rings in her ears, and she was carrying a flat rush basket over one arm. "Pretty lady," she said. The voice had dropped and changed into a curious singsong, half whining, half coaxing. "Pretty lady, pretty lady, will you buy some hazel nuts for your Christmas feast? Rare herbs to season your Christmas ale? Cross my palm with silver, and I'll tell you what fortune is laid up in the stars for you, pretty lady."

"Don't!" Kate interrupted her, fiercely. "Don't talk like that! Not to me! I can't bear it! What are you doing here? Get away quickly, before someone sees you!"

"And why should they not?" asked the voice. "A poor gypsy woman selling herbs to the lady of the castle, the great lady, in her fine silken gown? Choice and rare herbs, my lady. Only a penny a bunch."

"But that cannot be what you came for," Kate insisted. "What are you doing here? I thought it was against the law of your kind to return to a holy place once you had left it, and how ever did you get in? The passages are all blocked by the floods."

"Have no fear," said the Lady in her own voice, with a fine edge of contempt to it. "The passages are still blocked. Did you think that I or any of my people would creep back to this house to rob or to murder you for what you have done in the past? If ever I avenge myself on you or the Young Lord, it will be after another fashion. I came by the secret way over the wall behind the stable that Randal found, and I will never take that way again. I cannot return to the holy place for more than this one hour, and even for this one hour the gods will ask a heavy price of me."

"Then why did you come at all?"

"I came because I had to speak with you," said the Lady. "And briefly, for my time grows short. Geoffrey Heron has been in the Elvenwood marking trees. I wish you to tell him that whatever else he cuts down, he is not to touch the dancing oak."

"I can ask him," said Kate, a little doubtfully. "But how can I keep him from doing as he chooses?"

"I think there is not much that Geoffrey Heron would deny you if you asked it of him," replied the Lady. "And since I cannot keep him from doing as he chooses, I must in my turn ask it of you." The words were very quiet, almost colorless, but Kate knew what it must be costing her to say them, and spoke quickly before she had to humble herself any further. It never occurred to her to refuse. She had taken too much away from the Lady already. "I will ask it of him then," she said. "And gladly too."

"And what will you ask of me?"

"Ask?"

"In return," said the Lady. "I have never in my life taken something for nothing, after the way of your kind. I would not beg a favor or a boon even from the gods themselves, and least of all would I beg one from you. I asked you to speak for the life of the dancing oak because nothing else would save it, but do not deceive yourself. I am your enemy. I feel no kindness for you, and you are a fool if you feel any for me. I only want to pay you back — to the uttermost farthing, as the priests of your faith would say. You have given me the wish of my heart. Very well: suppose I give you yours?"

"You cannot know what mine is," said Kate, "and even if you did, you would not be able to give it to me."

"Our kind do not speak of what we do not know," said the Lady, unmoved. "When I came here searching for you, I stood by that window and watched you sitting by the hearth: you and the Young Lord and the girl in the embroidered dress. I could not hear what you said, but I saw her face when she looked at him, and your face when you looked at her, and his when he looked at you both. Will you let her take him from you? She is one of those who takes as she pleases, like the spring wind."

"She is my sister," said Kate, "and she has always taken as she pleases. But what am I to do? I cannot make her other than she is."

The Lady took a step forward, and put one hand into the basket on her arm.

"I would take her walking upon the sea-brim if I stood in your shoes," she observed softly. "But that would not give you the wish of your heart." She drew her hand from the basket again, and holding it out to Kate, very slowly opened the closed fingers. There was something dark lying on the whiteness of the palm — a little round dark thing like a dry and wizened berry.

"See to it that the Young Lord has wine again when you are all merry around the fire tonight," she said. "And then, at a time when he is looking up into your face, drop this secretly into his cup. I give you my word that it is not a noxious drug or a poison or any other unclean thing. But it is a very powerful charm, and the one he sees at that moment he will care for as he cares for no other woman. I cannot tell you how long the spell will hold — most love spells do not last forever — but it will surely last long enough to win him from your sister, and while it lasts he will be entirely your own. Put out your hand and take your payment from me."

She moved forward as she spoke, and Kate found herself retreating before her, backwards, one step, two steps, three, until she was brought up against the balustrade of the terrace. The Lady's hand was still stretched out to her, glimmering white like a moth in the dusk.

"Take it," said the Lady. "I tell you again: it will do him no harm. Do you doubt that I am speaking the truth?"

"No," said Kate.

"Do you think you can win him without it?"

"No," said Kate.

"Do you want your sister to have him?"

"No," said Kate.

"Will you take it, then? I cannot give it to you. You must take it from me."

"No," said Kate.

"What do you mean?" said the Lady, with the edge of contempt on her voice again. "And speak quickly, for my time is very short now. What are you afraid of? That the Young Lord may look down and catch you at it? Have no fear. The charm is only a small thing, easy to hide in those fine silken sleeves, and it will be lost in the wine soon enough. He will never know what you have done. No one will ever know."

"I am not afraid that he will catch me," said Kate.

"What else then? Who is to know?"

"Well," said Kate, almost apologetically, "I would."

"Then why," the Lady retorted, "have you been listening to me?"

Kate sighed. It was almost dark now, and she was very cold. The stiff rustling brocade of her gown felt as if it were made of ice.

"Because I am a fool," she said, "and my sister has had the better of me all her life. But do you think I learned nothing from the time I spent in your land, when you let me live as you do?"

"I thought you had gone back to the ways of your own kind."

"And so I have," said Kate; "but I am not Joan or Betty or Marian, and there are some things in which I would still choose to live as you do. I will take a payment from you gladly, if a payment will please you. But pay me another way."

The Lady closed her hand and let the basket slip away from her arm. She was now little more than a shadow, outlined against the faint light coming through the oriel window. In the dusk, it was impossible to see much except the mere shape of the dress, the cloak, the hair, and for that moment at least she looked like herself. She did not speak again. Very slowly, and with grave deliberation, she bent her head and sank down before Kate in the great bow that the women of her kind made to a Queen. Then she was gone.

Kate did not see her go because she was crying, as she had not cried since she was a small child. She did not know why she was crying, and she did not sob or shake or make a sound: only stood there with the heavy, unaccustomed tears thick and hot on her cheeks. Her mind seemed empty of everything but a confused sense of sorrow and pain, like the grief of a wound she would have to bear all her life.