Elizaveta began to walk, unable to exert herself now with her nausea returning, but her eyes never left Drake or his horse, even as they passed through to the second bridge leading up to the keep. She walked after them, tears of joy in her eyes, so very happy to see that he’d returned and not even questioning why he had returned. All she knew was that he had and that was all she focused on.
Her husband had come home.
*
Summoned by a harried servant just as he had left his chamber, where Devereux was still dressing, Davyss was just descending the entry stairs of the keep, down into the bailey, as Drake was ascending. He met his son in the middle, his features grave with concern.
“Drake,” Davyss gasped, reaching out to grasp his arm. “Why are you here? What has happened?”
Drake was exhausted and gray in the early morning light. He was sporting several days’ growth of beard and his eyes were dark-circled. He looked like hell. Visor flipped up on his helm, he started to speak to his father but he couldn’t seem to do it without tears filling his eyes. He’d been dreading this moment for weeks, planning what he was going to say, but now that the moment was upon him, he could hardly speak.
“We have brought Dallan home, Papa,” he said hoarsely. It was rare when he called his father “Papa”, belying the severity of the information he was about to deliver. “He was killed in an ambush.”
Davyss’ breath caught in his throat, his eyes at first widening with shock and then, just as quickly, narrowing in disbelief as the information sank deep. The hand on Drake’s arms tightened and he suddenly threw out a second hand, grabbing Drake as if to hold himself steady. But it wasn’t enough and he pitched backwards, onto his arse on the cold, stone steps as Drake dropped beside him, struggling to keep his father from falling over any further. Devon, who had been at the base of the stairs, raced up to help his brother.
“I am well,” Davyss waved off his concerned sons although that wasn’t exactly the truth; his world was rocking and his legs were like water. Still, he held tightly to Drake as his stunned mind mulled over what he’d been told. “Dallan is dead?”
Drake blinked back tears at the sight of his father’s grief. “Aye,” he whispered. “He fell in a skirmish. He was brave and strong until the end.”
Davyss’ features began to crumple as sorrow overwhelmed him, but he fought it. He fought hard to maintain his composure. “My son,” he murmured. “My Dallan… he is gone?’
“Aye, Papa.”
“He was brave, you said?”
Devon, his face rife with grief, nodded. “Aye,” he said softly. “He was very brave. He fought off a great attack but he was simply overwhelmed.”
“He was killed.”
“Aye.”
Davyss simply sat still after that, laboring to keep himself from falling apart. He’d asked three times if his son was truly dead and all three times, the answer was affirmative. There was no doubt. Now, he had to accept it. He swallowed hard, several times, still holding fast to Drake as if afraid to let him go. When he finally lifted his head, his lips were trembling with emotion.
“Did he die alone, lads?” he asked hoarsely.
Both Drake and Devon shook their heads and, at this point, Devon’s tears were falling again. “He did not,” Drake assured him quietly. “We were with him. We held him and told him we loved him. He did not die alone, Papa, I swear it. We were with him as he passed on.”
That seemed to comfort Davyss a great deal. With his sons’ help, he managed to stand, preparing himself to go to the wagon to view his son’s body, when Drake suddenly came to a halt, his focus on the keep entry. Startled, Devon and Davyss looked to see what had his attention and all three of them saw Devereux standing at the top of the stairs.
Wrapped in gray wool, she blended in with the misty morning, her lovely face emotionless but she was clearly looking at the wagon below. It was a terrible and unexpected moment, something the men had hoped would not happen this soon. They’d hoped to prepare their mother for the truth, but not out here in the midst of the bailey for all to see. Drake hastened to speak.
“Mother,” he said hoarsely. “I….”
Devereux cut him off. “I heard,” she said, sounding oddly hollow. “I heard what you said. Where is my Dallan?”
Devon rushed to her, to help her down the stairs, but Devereux didn’t seem to need any help. She brushed Devon off, her face like stone, as she made her way down the steps. Deeply concerned, Devon and Drake and Davyss followed her, trailing after her as she made her way to the wagon where Dallan’s body had been traveling in an oak box that Drake had purchased in the town of Auckland.
Devereux gazed at the casket, wet with mist, for several long moments, seemingly too stunned to speak or even move much. She simply stood there and stared at it as the entire bailey of Norwich seemed to come to a stop, watching her, all of them knowing that something dreadful had happened. Since Drake and Devon were present, it was not difficult to assume that the casket in the wagon held young Dallan de Winter. Some of the soldiers in the bailey crossed themselves and murmured a prayer, while still others were openly grieving. Dallan had been well-liked, by everyone, so his death was a great blow to those at Norwich.
But the blow to Devereux was the greatest of all. Dallan had been her youngest, her last child, and he had been her close companion for years. He had only been sent away to foster, at the rather old age of ten years, because Davyss had insisted. Still, he hadn’t gone far – only to Framlingham because it was only a four-day trip away – and Devereux had brought the lad home as a young man of fourteen where he had finished his training at Norwich with his father.
It had been a running family joke, how Dallan was always attached to his mother’s apron strings. Drake and Devon and Denys had teased him about it, but Dallan had taken it in stride. His education had been unconventional, to be sure, but Dallan had emerged a very skilled knight, taught by one of England’s best, even if his teacher had been his own father. But the gist of the situation was that Dallan had been very close to both parents and particularly to his mother.
Therefore, Drake and Devon and Davyss watched apprehensively as Devereux finally approached the casket in the wagon bed, putting her hand on it without hesitation. She rested her hand there for a few moments, simply feeling the wood beneath her fingers, contemplating the body it contained. Her beloved son. She stroked the wood a few times before speaking.
“Open the casket,” she said softly.
Drake left his father to stand next to her. “Mother, please,” he begged softly. “He has been dead for weeks. You do not want to see him as he is now.”
Devereux considered that a moment. “Have you seen him recently?”
“Aye.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“Then I would see him, also.”
“Mother, I beg of you….”
“Open it, Drake.”
Drake looked to his father beseechingly but Davyss simply nodded; the pain evident in every corner of his expression.
“Do it,” he whispered.
With a heavy sigh and a heavy heart, Drake leapt up onto the wagon bed and opened the lid of the casket, which was not secured. He lifted it up and set it on the wagon bed beside him. Meanwhile, his mother had moved up next to the casket to see her son wrapped up in his burial shroud, an expanse of unbleached fabric that covered his features. She reached in without reservation and peeled back the material around his face and shoulders.
It was Dallan, but he wasn’t as bad as Drake had led her to believe. The cold weather had preserved his body well, well enough so that there was thankfully no smell and decay was minimal. Dallan was ghostly white, and a bit sunken in the eyes and cheeks, but he didn’t look terrible. He looked as if he were sleeping.
Devereux studied his face, reconciling herself to the reality of his death, before reaching out and taking one of the stone-cold hands that were crossed on his chest. As her sons, husband,
and the entire bailey stood by and watched, she spoke to Dallan.
“I watched you come into this life,” she said softly. “You were a lusty baby that wanted to be fed constantly. When you learned to walk, you somehow always ended up in my bed in the early morning before the house was awake. You would crawl in and press against me, seeking warmth and comfort. When you were older, you would still come into my chamber in the early morning until your father told you that you were too old to do such a thing. I became angry with your father and banished him from our chamber for a week. Do you recall how upset he was? I still laugh to think about it. But you were my youngest and I knew I would never have another child. I wanted to enjoy your youth as I was not able to enjoy your brothers and sister. They seemed so eager to grow up and move away from me but you… you wanted to stay with me. I still want you to stay with me but I know you cannot, so I will say this… it has been a privilege to be your mother, Dallan. What a privilege it has been to watch you grow and become the fine man that I saw amongst these walls. I will miss that. I will miss you. Godspeed, my son, to fairer halls within God’s heavenly realm. I pray that He blesses you and keeps you close.”
With that, she bent over the end of the box and kissed Dallan tenderly on the forehead. Releasing his hand, she turned and walked away, heading to the keep stairs as her husband and remaining sons watched her go. Davyss, with tears in his eyes, went to the casket to see Dallan for himself, also kissing him on the forehead and stroking the blond hair. Heartbroken to see such grief from his beloved parents, Drake spoke softly.
“I do not know if this will help Mother, but Dallan’s last words were of her,” he told his father. “He asked for her. It was the last thing he said.”
Davyss closed his eyes tightly and the tears spilled. He quickly wiped them away. “I will tell her,” he confirmed. “Mayhap she would like to know his last thoughts were of her.”
“I thought so.”
Davyss turned away without replying, following his wife back into the keep. As his shattered parents retreated, Drake placed the lid of the coffin back on the box and secured it. He opened his mouth to say something to Devon when he caught sight of someone at the gatehouse.
Elizaveta was standing there, tears on her face and hands to her mouth as she watched the scene. Drake stared at her a moment, unprepared for her appearance. He had been so grief-stricken by her actions, feelings that had grown even stronger on the journey back to Norwich, that he wasn’t entirely sure he could speak to her at all and not explode in a shower of cinder. It was a shock to see her, and a devastating one, knowing what she had done and knowing that all of the warmth and fondness between them had been a lie. Drake was wounded by it and wounded deep.
He was hurting as he had never hurt in his life.
But he knew he had to say something to her. He couldn’t simply ignore her and pretend she didn’t exist or, worse still, pretend nothing had ever happened. Pretend that he didn’t know the depths of her betrayal. Jumping off the wagon bed, he brushed past Devon on his way to Elizaveta.
“Take care of Dallan,” he said, his voice husky with emotion. “I must speak with my wife.”
Devon nodded, turning to see Elizaveta standing there, weeping. Drake had never told Devon what Davey Maxwell had said, how Mabelle Maxwell had sent information to the Scots so that they would know of the de Winter army movements as it pertained to joining Edward’s army. When Devon had asked him those weeks back what the interrogation of the captives had turned up, Drake had only said that the Scots had moved south to try and disrupt Edward’s army, which was vaguely the truth. But he said no more than that.
Therefore, Devon knew nothing about Elizaveta and her betrayal. Drake wanted to keep it that way because he was embarrassed enough, and shattered enough, not to want his family to know he’d been duped. They had all been duped. Maybe someday he would tell them, but with Dallan lying dead a few feet away, now was not the time.
Perhaps it would never be the time.
*
Standing back by the gate, Elizaveta had witnessed most of Lady de Winter’s encounter with Dallan’s corpse and she could see, quite clearly, the devastation of the de Winter family.
Not knowing what had happened to Dallan, she tried to stave off the hacking stabs of guilt that his death provoked but she knew, in her heart, that she must have somehow caused this. Her missive must have made it through to Mabelle and this was the result. She’d caused pain and she’d caused death with that missive she’d sent those months ago.
She’d caused everything she had feared.
Dear God… what have I done…?
When Lord and Lady de Winter headed back into the keep after viewing their dead son’s body, Drake was suddenly heading in her direction. He was ashen, his eyes dark-circled, and before she could say a word to him, he reached out to her. Elizaveta thought he was going to embrace her but he ended up grabbing her by the arm instead, so tightly that he hurt her. She winced as he began to drag her off across the bailey.
“Drake!” she gasped. “You are hurting me!”
Drake spoke through clenched teeth. “Do not speak,” he growled. “You will not speak until spoken to. Is that clear?”
There was deadly hazard in his tone, quite shocking. Frightened and bewildered, Elizaveta allowed him to pull her across the bailey without a fight and back into the area where the castle garden was. There was a small kitchen yard to the rear with an overhang shelter that protected a butter churn and a few other kitchen implements. Drake took Elizaveta back to this area, as far as he could take her away from the keep, before releasing her. Elizaveta rubbed her arm, gazing up at him with great concern, but she didn’t speak. He’d told her not to. Therefore, she waited with tremendous anxiety.
Drake didn’t speak right away. He just stared at her, his mouth working, as if trying to figure out just what to say. There was sweat on his brow and his eyes were watery. When he spoke, his voice was terribly strained.
“Tell me how your grandmother was able to send information to the Maxwells that my army would be joining Edward’s army in Hexham,” he said. “Tell me how they knew of our movements, Elizaveta, so that they were able to ambush us and kill my brother.”
Elizaveta’s eyes widened. My God! She thought wildly. He knows! Somehow, someway, he knows what I have done! Someone must have told him!
Her heart was beating loudly in her chest, so loudly that it was all she could hear. The thump, thump, thump that was driven by Drake’s question and the expression on his face. The nausea in her stomach rolled and her palms began to sweat, and she bent over and vomited up all of the bread she had eaten, spilling it into the dirt.
Dallan’s death is on me!
The words rolled over and over in her mind even as she continued to vomit, even as there was nothing more to come up. Dry heaving, she staggered over to the wall and slumped against it, hand at her mouth.
Drake was unsympathetic. “Tell me!” he boomed.
Elizaveta jumped at the sound of his voice, cringing against the wall. “I… I did not want to do it,” she said, her voice a husky whisper as saliva and vomit dripped from her lips. “I was forced to. I… I had little choice.”
Drake wasn’t in any mood for foolery. “Make sense, woman,” he said. “Who forced you?”
Elizaveta wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. “My grandmother,” she said, unable to look at him. “There is much you do not know about my family, Drake. Much you should have known but I was too afraid to tell you. My grandmother hates the English for what they did to her husband, so much so that she has been very active in supporting the Scots rebellion against the English. She saw me as a great pawn in her game against the English and knew, as the heiress to East Anglia, that I would command a great marriage. She offered my contract to Edward who in turn gave me to you. My grandmother threatened to send assassins after my father if I did not comply with her demands that I should spy on you for her cause. I felt that I had little choice in the
matter. I did not want to do it but… but I was afraid of what would happen if I did not.”
He looked at her as if he could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Your grandmother forced you to spy on me?” he demanded.
Elizaveta nodded, closing her eyes against his outraged expression. “Aye,” she muttered. “She said she would kill me or kill my father if I did not do as she bade. I believed her. I still do.”
It was astonishing to hear. But at least the question he’d harbored in his mind since that terrible November day had answers. It made some sense in the realm of rationality and he could see what had happened, all of this espionage going on behind the scenes that he had been utterly oblivious to. A vengeful woman whose husband had been killed by the English and a granddaughter who was at the woman’s mercy. Aye, he was starting to understand, indeed.
“You did not wish to marry at all,” he said. “Is this why?”
Elizaveta nodded, so firmly that her hair broke free of its careful braid and slapped against her cheek.
“She wanted to use me to spy,” she said, feeling tears close to the surface. “It was her plan well before you and I were betrothed. I did not want to marry anyone; it just happened to be you. My grandmother was thrilled but I hated her for it. That is why… why when we left Thetford to go to Spexhall, I did not wish to speak with her. I did not wish to see her at all. All she would have done was threaten me again and tell me how it was my duty to gather information from my new husband. She told me that my kin are Scots and I suppose they are, since my mother was born in Scotland, but I do not feel kin with them. I have never felt kin with anyone.”
The tears began to fall, quietly, and Drake began to feel some bewilderment along with his rage. The hurt he had kept so carefully buried began to come forth.