Forbidden Lord (8 page)

‘My God,' William said in hushed tones. ‘What has happened here?'

Eleanor halted on the threshold, thinking for an unbelievable moment that they must have lost their way and come to
the wrong house, that they had somehow stumbled into a situation that had nothing to do with them and that this horrific sight was someone else's nightmare. Something deep and insistent mounted within her heart and cried out against it. The cry was building inside her, searching for a way to escape, so very painful to her, but the cry remained inside as her eyes took in the truly awful scene.

‘Oh, no,' she moaned. ‘Dear Lord, oh, Lord.' Her eyes wandered over the burned-out ruin, which bore no resemblance to the Hollymead she had known.

It was dark and smelled of scorched wood. The central hearth where the dogs used to lie was blackened, as was what was left of the trestles and benches and floorboards. Moving farther inside, Eleanor turned her head around to take it all in, remembering it as it had been in the days of her childhood—her mother and father at the long table, the smell of roasted meat and firelight and servants running hither and thither.

With a sob she slowly crumpled down to her knees. Nature cloaked her shock in mercy for she was unable to move, all thought having left her. She was very still, her heart dragging in pain. Her cloak was sodden, her hair hanging in soaked skeins down her back to her waist and clinging to her wet cheeks; it was a while before she realised that it was not the rain, but her own bitter tears.

Recalled to the present, she whispered, ‘Hollymead was my lodestone, the centre of my being, the place reminding me of my origins, of who I am. Without it I am nothing. Who would dream of doing this?'

William could see the bleak agony on her face. ‘I can think of one,' he said gently to her, taking her cold hand and raising her to her feet. Something in his chest gripped him, an urgent need to take her in his arms and comfort her, but, fearing she would push him away, he took a step back. However, his eyes studied her, gauging her, watching for every nuance of thought and emotion in her.

Eleanor fixed her tear-bright eyes on him. ‘The two men we saw in Pontefract—my stepfather's henchmen. It was them, wasn't it? Little wonder they were in such a hurry. Dear God, William, this is only the beginning. I have only been gone from Fryston Hall five days and he has done this—struck straight at my heart. What wickedness will he undertake before he is done? I have paid a heavy price for thwarting him. And my uncle—where is he? Please, God, don't let him have perished in the blaze?'

‘As to that, I can tell you he did not,' a voice said.

Eleanor spun round to face a man in middle age who had quietly come to stand behind her. She frowned for, despite his dishevelled and grimy appearance, he was soberly and decently attired and seemed familiar. ‘And you are?'

‘Thomas Walters, mistress—Sir John's steward. The master barely escaped with his life, so badly burned he was and overcome with the smoke.'

Pale and stricken, Eleanor stared at him. ‘Please—will you take me to him?'

‘He isn't here, but I know he's safe—I took him myself to St Thomas's Hospital outside Micklegate Bar to be cared for. If you don't hurry, he may not be alive when you get there.'

Eleanor closed her eyes in agony. A sob rose in her throat. Destiny had struck her. Her uncle was dying. Someone had tried to kill him. How could such a thing happen? She felt enormous relief that he was safe, but was worried as to the extent of his injuries.

‘I thank you, Thomas. I am Eleanor Collingwood, Sir John's niece. Perhaps you remember me, and my father, Edgar Collingwood.'

Thomas was weary and red eyed, but his soot-blackened features cracked beneath a smile. ‘I know who you are, Mistress Collingwood. I remember you when you lived at Hollymead, when you were a child—and Sir Edgar and his gentle wife, your mother, God rest her.'

‘What happened here?' William asked curtly. ‘And what happened to the servants?'

Thomas turned his gaze on the taller man, whose compelling, intelligent and almost transparent eyes were colder than an icy winter sky and there was a thin, white line about his mouth. Speaking precisely and fluently, he said, ‘It was no accident, that I do know, and what few servants there were—Sir John insisted on the absolute minimum at all times, got out—I have rooms at the opposite end of the house to Sir John, so I didn't hear the visitors arrive—from London, Sir John managed to tell me, who said they had been instructed to burn the house to the ground with him inside it.'

His words smashed into Eleanor's consciousness like an axe blow. Feeling rage growing inside her like a rising storm, she reared up and turned her blazing eyes on William. ‘We were right. It was my stepfather who ordered this. That he would order the house to be burned with my uncle inside is indeed the work of a monster.'

‘I was in bed when I smelled the smoke,' Thomas went on. ‘Sir John was already overcome with smoke and his nightshirt alight when I reached him. I managed to douse his clothes and get him outside, but there was nothing I or those who came to help could do to put out the fire. It was already out of control.'

On hearing this, in his fury William's first instinct was to throw himself on his horse and head straight back to London to slay the perpetrator, Frederick Atwood, to rage at him for the insanity of his power. The thought that he could burn down the home of his dead wife and with his elderly cousin inside filled him with anger. He wanted to destroy Atwood's arrogance, the wicked power-sated confidence of the man. That he should use his power, his remorseless will, against a target as young and vulnerable as Eleanor made him shake like an angry child at the strength of his feelings.

‘You say my uncle is unlikely to survive,' Eleanor said quietly.

An intense pain descended on Thomas's features. Shaking
his head slowly, he said, ‘The wounds to his body are severe, but not life threatening, but the smoke damage to his lungs I fear will prove fatal.'

‘Then I must go to him at once.'

‘The men who did this?' William demanded. ‘Did anyone see them—which way they were headed?'

‘No, they disappeared.'

‘And you, Thomas? Have you relatives you can go to?' Eleanor enquired concernedly.

‘My brother is a cloth merchant in Petergate. I can go there when I have to, but there is work to be done here. But come, I will ride with you to the city and see how your uncle fares.'

Tears of fear and grief were forming in Eleanor's eyes. Shaking her head, she looked down, suddenly feeling weary and defeated. Focusing her eyes on a small object shining between the floorboards, she became distracted. Kneeling down, she picked it up and looked at it. It was a bead, a red, shiny bead. A shaft of light slanting through a shattered window high up in the wall penetrated the deep red mystery of the bead's inner fire and it winked and shone in a burst of colour in the palm of her hand. Perhaps it had been her mother's or even her own. She couldn't remember, but suddenly it seemed very precious to her. Closing her fingers around it she crushed it to her breast.

When they emerged into the open the sun came out in a sky streaked with the last remnants of cloud. It gave her no pleasure. It seemed that it had come out mock her, for she knew she had no power, no weaponry, against her uncle's vengeance. The future no longer seemed appealing or safe. Now everything was changed and she was no longer sure of anything. She was adrift.

As they rode away from Hollymead her face was whiter than death. She had herself under the tightest control. William saw her bite her lip to keep her tears at bay.

They rode to the city in silence, Eleanor, anxious about what she would find when they reached St Thomas's hospital, a little ahead of the others.

 

York was a pleasant and beautiful city. The countryside around it was rich, populous and fruitful and furnished with provisions of every kind, the river being so navigable and near the sea. It was a highway of great importance, not merely to York, but to the whole country and to the towns and territory farther north. The city was full of gentry and people of distinction who lived in houses in proportion to their quality.

On the outskirts the streets were mired in mud and smoke twisted from the timber-framed houses along the Mount. The closer they got to the walls an all-pervading, nauseous stench from the gutters assailed them. Nobody seemed to attach any importance to it and Eleanor herself breathed with indifference the foul, saturated air.

It was busy around St Thomas's Hospital, the streets full of noise and confusion as people went in and out of the city through Micklegate Bar, many folk pushing handcarts and crying out their wares.

Eleanor kept her eyes averted from the blind and rotting eyes in what was left of the heads stuck on poles above the gate. They were the heads of felons who had been hanged, drawn and quartered, the rest of their remains scattered. It was a gruesome sight for travellers to have to see as they passed through the gate to the city beyond.

Entering through an arched doorway with double-arched mullioned windows on either side, they went inside the infirmary and were taken to a small square room where the bandaged figure of Sir John Collingwood lay on a narrow bed. Two women tending him stood aside, but Eleanor paid no attention to them as she approached the bed.

Her uncle was almost unrecognisable, since his head and
part of his face were covered. What she could see of his face was as pale as wax and two deep grey shadows ran from his nostrils down to the corners of his mouth. His chest rose and fell and his breath rasped in his throat as he struggled to breathe.

A great wretchedness dragged her down as she looked at this man whose life was so enriched with learning. The first two fingers on his right hand were permanently ink stained. He was a scholar, a thinker, a man to seek out the truth of what was written, a man who put great emphasis on education and had a great reverence for scholarship. The colleges where he taught in York appreciated the benefits his wide knowledge brought to the pupils and she knew that, should he die, he would be deeply mourned.

The doctor came to stand beside her. ‘If I could, I would work a miracle that would save him—but, alas, my abilities are limited. Short of treating and dressing his wounds, I am powerless to do more. As you see, he fights for every breath. His condition has worsened since he was brought in.'

‘You have done your best,' Eleanor whispered, ‘and I thank you. The rest is in God's hands.'

‘He—hasn't much time,' the doctor said.

There was silence around them. Stricken to the heart, Eleanor gently took her uncle's hand, trying not to think of the scorched flesh hidden beneath the bed covers. She had prepared herself for the ordeal of seeing him so close to death, and this dreadful weakness and helplessness she felt could only grow worse when this man she had depended on, placed all her hopes upon, was no more.

William knew her distress. Bending towards her, he whispered in a voice that was soft, ‘Speak to him, Eleanor. He might hear you.'

Swallowing down the lump that had risen in her throat, she leaned forward. ‘Uncle,' she said softly, ‘it's Eleanor. Can you hear me?'

Slowly, with tremendous effort, her uncle opened his eyes.
They moved about vaguely for a moment and then settled on his niece, uncomprehending. ‘Eleanor?' His voice was low and hoarse and it pained him to speak.

As Eleanor gazed down at him, tears filled her eyes and a warm glow of affection spread through her body. When he smiled and gripped her hand, she held it close to her chest. ‘Yes, Uncle John, it really is me.' A bleak smile crossed his parched lips. ‘I am sorry you are so badly injured.'

‘I—am going to die.'

‘Don't say that,' Eleanor protested, then added affectionately, ‘I will take care of you.'

‘No. There is no point in fooling ourselves,' he said with difficulty. ‘I know.'

What could Eleanor say when the vitality of his life was seeping out of him? His breathing was growing more laboured every minute and it was getting harder for him to speak. She had to bend her head to catch what he said.

‘Hollymead? The fire? Why did he do it?'

‘Who?' she whispered. ‘Uncle John, do you know who did this?'

‘My cousin—Frederick Atwood—sent men… But why would he want to burn Hollymead?'

‘Because—because of me,' Eleanor confessed wretchedly, almost choking on the lump in her throat. ‘I ran away from Fryston Hall—from my stepfather—and this is my punishment. I'm so, so sorry, Uncle—you will never know how much, how wretched this makes me feel. If I had known he would do this terrible thing, I would never have run away.'

‘Atwood—he was not kind to you?' The panting breath came and went in the injured man's breast as his damaged lungs took in air with the greatest difficulty.

Eleanor shook her head. ‘No—not since Mother died.'

‘I—I was so very sorry to hear of her death. She was a good woman. Why did you not go to—Matilda?'

‘Aunt Matilda is visiting friends abroad and will not be
back for some time. Besides, I wanted to come home.' The words were spoken simply and from the heart.

Sir John smiled, understanding. ‘Of course you did. And Hollymead is still your home, whatever happens. You must get word to Walter in the Netherlands. He—he is married now—with a child on the way. Hollymead needs a family again. When I am gone, the estate will be his. He must come home. It is a fine, prosperous estate and houses can be rebuilt.'

Eleanor bowed her head so he would not see her heartbreak. ‘I know, and I will get word to Walter and explain what has happened.' Her voice was barely audible.

‘I always knew Atwood had an evil streak—like his father before him. Even as a boy—it did not take much for his anger to spill over into rage and violence. He would not forgive a transgression, imagined or otherwise—but that he should stoop to this… Marian, your dear mother, should never have married him.'