Dreamspell (38 page)

“I do.”

“All right, but let me fix you a tray first.”

Kennedy wanted to argue, but she was hungry.

While Laurel puttered around the kitchen, Kennedy eyed the laptop on her desk. Would she find the answers there? Could she return to the fourteenth century with a name that would prove Fulke’s innocence and save the boys?

A half hour later she was fed—a meager four bites that was all she could choke down—pillows plumped at her back, a blanket snugged up to her chest, glasses on her nose, and the computer online.

“Anything else I can get you?” her mother asked.

“I’m fine, Mom.” It almost hurt to talk, her tongue thick and slow. “You should get. . .home to Jack.”

“Don’t you worry about Jack. He understands.”

Understood that his wife was on death watch. Kennedy pushed the nasty reminder to the back of her mind. It was time to do a search for things medieval, specifically heraldic devices. “All right, Mom, but this could take a while.”

“That’s fine. I brought plenty of audio books.”

Her mother’s one vice—books she didn’t have to struggle through. Kennedy managed a small smile. “Thank you for staying.”

Laurel kissed her daughter’s cheek. “What’s a mom for?” She turned, curled into the chair beside the sofa, and fit her headphones.

Kennedy swelled with love for the gentle woman. She was going to miss her.

The internet search through medieval heraldic devices proved mind-boggling. Bend sinister this, chevron that, here a dragon, there a lion, everywhere a wyvern. But none two-headed. Her thoughts playing tag amid her pounding head, she squeezed her eyes closed.

“Why don’t you rest, dear?”

Kennedy shook her head. “I’m not done.”

“But—”

“Please, Mom.”

Laurel nodded and repositioned her headphones.

A few minutes later, Kennedy gave up—temporarily. There was something else she needed to know, no matter how much she feared it. Her next search for information on the life of Fulke Wynland turned up a curiously titled book,
The Troubadour in the Tower
that, fortunately, was available in digital format. Too fatigued to read it through, she skimmed. Though written by a different author than the one who had written
The Sins of the Earl of Sinwell
, the early twentieth century account echoed the revised story told by Kennedy’s mother. But near the end, the impostor was revealed, a woman known only by the name of Nedy who disappeared following the fire.

Kennedy put her head down and breathed deep. Nuts or not, she accepted her time with Fulke was real, so why did it feel as if she had been slugged in the chest? Because, in the twenty-first century, he was six hundred years dead, and if she didn’t return she wouldn’t see him alive again. He would remain a man horribly wronged.

Get a grip, Ken.
She brought the computer screen into focus. There were the deaths of John, Harold, and Lady Lark, a week later the death of Sir Arthur Crosley from an infection that set into his wound. A month later, Fulke was named Earl of Sinwell, the day after arrested and charged with the murder of his nephews and Lady Lark. For nearly three years he had suffered King Edward’s imprisonment while awaiting a trial before his peers. When judgment came, he was put to the noose at Smithfield. Unless she returned, this would be his fate.

“Oh, Fulke.”

As for the book’s title, indistinct pictures of the walls that had been Fulke’s prison all those years explained it more clearly and painfully than the accompanying narrative. Carved into stone and preserved to the time of the book’s writing, were verses that the author said troubadours had sung of for hundreds of years thereafter, and which he claimed to be among history’s greatest testaments to love.

What had Fulke written? Kenny paged forward. There—the back wall of his prison, and carved into it was that which was considered his most exalted tribute to his beloved.

She adjusted her glasses, but poor resolution on her computer screen made it impossible to read. She returned to the text. And was rewarded. Since the poem had been written in Middle English and contained what the author called “a multitude of misspellings indicative of the earl’s poor grasp of reading and writing,” he provided a translation.

Are you a dream of mine? Of yours?

Did you not run from me, to me, legs bared?

Did you not cast a spell to bind me, unveil me?

Did your fingers not entwine with mine, nor mine entwine with yours?

Did you not embrace me, nor I embrace you?

Did you not hold me, nor I hold you?

Did your lips not touch mine, nor mine touch yours?

Did you not seek me, nor I seek you?

Did you not speak words of love, nor breathe them against my lips?

Did you not touch me in body, in soul, nor I you?

Did you not leave me wanting, nor I you?

Did you not smile for me, vowing ever after?

Did you not tell tales fantastic, dreaming yourself to me?

Did you not make promises, ones answered only in my thoughts?

Did you not leave me, disappearing at the stroke upon dawn?

You did. You were. You are. But not here.

And now I have loved and know the burning, the yearning.

All I would have done for you, no matter the cost.

Even I would have killed for you.

And now I shall die for you.

A sob slipped from Kennedy, and she glanced at her mother. Head back, headphones askew, Laurel slept.

Kennedy drew a shuddering breath and returned to the computer. The writings were for her, telling of the love Fulke had been unable to speak aloud. She touched the computer screen. “You love me.” Or he had. . .

No! She
was
going back. But not empty-handed. The device of someone, somewhere in the past, boasted a two-headed wyvern.

Kennedy wiped her eyes and looked to the final paragraphs of the book. The author submitted that Fulke’s writings were for the mysterious impostor known as Nedy who was believed to have been his accomplice in the murders of his nephews and Lady Lark. In conclusion, Fulke’s misguided love for the covetous woman proved his downfall.

It was time to set the record straight. Fingers feeling like pegs on the keyboard, Kennedy returned to the website for heraldic devices.

“T
hat’s it.” Kennedy stared at the picture of a hand grasping heather that had been the device of a Baron Brom, then shifted her gaze to the two-headed wyvern alongside.

The baron is most proud of it
, she recalled Sir Leonel’s words when, at Farfallow, he had shown her the medallion his former lord had awarded him,
though not as proud as he is of that which his third wife brought to their marriage. She is of royal blood. Do you allow me, I will
—

The reverse had undoubtedly borne a two-headed wyvern, the royal device the baron gained through his third marriage. Had Kennedy not interrupted Leonel and alerted him to what the dying soldier had told, she might not have had to leave Fulke.

Her miniscule reserve of energy seeping into the sofa, she removed her glasses. Leonel had been the one all along—but with Jaspar’s blessings?

Kennedy trod backward through time. Lady Lark had been held at Castle Cirque, which made it appear Jaspar was involved and, therefore, presented the possibility Leonel was mixed up in it. True, on the evening following Lady Lark’s escape, whereby she had knocked her captor silly, Jaspar had appeared pained, but so had Leonel. Wearing a hat Kennedy had not seen before or since, he had imbibed heavily and, afterwards, staggered out of the hall. Had the hangover not been a hangover, but a head injury?

Then there was Leonel’s insistence that he accompany Fulke in his search, followed by his questioning of Kennedy about the attack and his near certainty she was not Lady Lark. Had his show of disappointment that she belonged to another been an attempt to charm her into admitting what he already knew? It seemed so. Nevertheless, he had appeared genuinely concerned about her relationship with Fulke. Though he had to have known she was a fraud, he had witnessed their intimacies and must have felt threatened by them. For Lady Jaspar’s sake, or his own? Whosever it was, Kennedy guessed the assassin was to have removed that threat when he attacked her by the pond. In his own words, Moriel had admitted he was hired to ensure Fulke did not wed her. Too, Leonel had known quite a bit about the real Lady Lark that no one else seemed to know.

As for the most incriminating piece of evidence, Kennedy had wrongly assumed that, as Fulke’s medallion bore identical images on both sides, so did Leonel’s. However, when she had asked Leonel if he knew whose device had a two-headed wyvern, he had quickly returned the medallion to his tunic and discouraged her from revealing to Fulke what the dying soldier had told. To top it off, he had tried to flee with her—for fear that, having been clouted into unconsciousness, Lady Lark might be able to identify him as her captor?

What a tangled web! So how did all this piece together? For whatever reason he had done it, it seemed Sir Leonel had hired Moriel and others to do away with Lady Lark. In attending the killing, he had fingered himself. But why John and Harold? What obstacle did they present? If Lady Jaspar was part of it, was it Fulke she wished to wed or an earl unhindered by others’ claim to the title? And if Leonel acted alone, for what gain?

Kennedy groaned. She was too tired to work it through, longed to yield to sleep. Unfortunately, forty winks would only lead to more and set her so far back she would never be able to return to Fulke. With hands that shook, she closed her laptop.

“Would you like me to help you to bed?” her mother asked.

When had she awakened? Kennedy looked into the shadows that evidenced the coming of night. “No, Mom, I’m fine here. Would you mind making me some coffee?”

“You need sleep, Nedy.”

“I just slept through a day and a half.”

Her mother switched on the lamp and scrutinized Kennedy’s face. “You’re tired. I can see it in your eyes.”

Tough love time. She reached a hand to her mother and Laurel took it. “You know it’s almost over for me, Mom. Please don’t deny me the little bit of time I have left. I want to spend it with you.”

Laurel broke eye contact. “Of course.” She struggled a long moment, then said, “Coffee it is.” She patted Kennedy’s hand. “You will call Graham, won’t you?”

“I will.” If nothing else, she owed him a goodbye. But there was another loose end to tie up. “Would you bring me the blue binder that’s on my printer?”

Twenty minutes later, halfway through her second cup of coffee, the final journal entry was complete.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

G
et as near your death as you can.
Mac’s advice drifted through Kennedy’s consciousness. She had done her best, held on for more than two days, but she had nothing left to give. Her head throbbed, muscles and joints ached, and she was so weak she could barely lift an arm. And the nausea. . . Though she had given up on food yesterday, the dry heaves were doing her in. Surely she couldn’t get any nearer death than this?

“Sleep, baby,” her mother said.

She turned her head in Laurel’s lap and looked up at her mother’s lined face. Since her return, she had twice feigned sleep to allay Laurel’s anxiety, but this time it would be real—and final. “Mom, I want you. . .to have my journal.”

Laurel glanced at where it sat on the sofa table.

“Promise me. . .” Kennedy swallowed in an attempt to moisten her dry throat. “Promise you’ll read it.”

“Of course I will.” Laurel curved a hand around her daughter’s scalp.

The simple touch eased some of Kennedy’s pain. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, Nedy.” Tears floated in her eyes. “Do you remember the prayer you used to say at bedtime?”

“Um hmm.” Kennedy closed her eyes as her mother recited it and, on the third verse, joined in. “If I should die. . .before I wake. . .” Ironic, she mused as sleep pulled at her, causing her to miss the next verse. “If I should live for other days. . .” She would, wouldn’t she? It was only then she remembered what she needed to do. Dear God, she had nearly fallen asleep without placing herself at Sinwell on the day of the fire previous to Jaspar’s arrival.

“. . .to guide my ways,” Laurel finished the prayer, her voice a whisper in the dark behind Kennedy’s eyelids.

Kennedy tried to open her eyes, to look one last time at her mother, but they wouldn’t open. “Love you,” she breathed, then let her mind go to where Fulke waited for her.

Laurel held on, cradled her baby, knew that when she let go it would be forever. The pain made her want to scream. If not for Kennedy’s peace found in sleep, she would have. As her daughter slipped away, Laurel kissed her brow. “Send me a sign, Nedy.”

H
eartstoppingly familiar. So was the dress. Kennedy sat up on the bed in the small chamber she had been given when she first came to Brynwood Spire. She touched the bodice and felt its fine material down to her waist. While putting herself into the dream, she had slipped in a wish that she return in style wearing something flattering like what she had worn at the beginning—absent the blood on its skirt. And so it was.