Keeper of the Stone (2 page)

The bloody sight greeting her halfway down the keep’s main staircase leading to the great hall dispelled Rhiann’s foolish assumption she had already passed beyond pain’s reach.  Her gasp of denial escaped between her clenched lips as she flew down the remaining steps, understanding now why she was unable to find her mother when there was still time for the two of them to escape.  Kneeling beside her dying mother, Rhiann understood only one of them would escape from their enemy’s grasp. Her mother would never be forced to leave her home, at least in life.

CHAPTER THREE

Rhiann was nauseous with hunger and exhaustion when she was led through the large wooden doors into the impressive former home of her Saxon king but that now belonged to the Norman Duke William.  She was barely conscious of the noise of the loud conversations echoing throughout the great hall or how they slowly trailed off as the other occupants became aware of her presence.  The long months of war and grief took their toll on her once carefree spirit as did the lonely, fearful trek to London as a prisoner of the Norman soldiers who now occupied her former home. She could neither summon the energy nor the inclination to take an interest in her surroundings.  She felt empty inside, dead already, if that indeed was the fate awaiting her at the hands of the Norman duke.  Her father, the powerful Saxon Duke of Weston, was dead.  His estates and the only home she ever knew at Heaven’s Crest, were forfeit.  All of her father’s property was now booty for the victor of this war to dispense as he willed.

She supposed that included her as well.  She accepted she was likely the only member of her immediate family who still lived, but it wasn’t death itself she feared, only its prelude. Rhiann believed she might even welcome the blessed forgetfulness of everlasting sleep.  Now as she stood in her enemy’s stronghold, confronting her own mortality, she deeply regretted she was not among the defenders at Heavens Crest’s last stand.

Rather than speculate on the enemy duke’s intentions for what would no doubt prove to be her short-lived future, she busied her mind with memories of the fateful day when everything went so horribly wrong and her old life died around her. Rhiann and her mother were to have been secreted to safety beyond the enemy’s reach by a loyal few of her father’s household knights. The other soldiers in charge of the defense of the duke’s home made a last desperate attempt to distract the invading Norman foes with a final offensive thrust in order to give their comrades the opportunity to spirit Rhiann and her mother to freedom in the north. 

In the confusion of those final desperate hours, her memories seared with the rank smell of death and the anguished cries of the dying, Rhiann became separated from her mother. It wasn’t until later when the keep fell, its defenders overwhelmed at last, that she learned the full extent of her loss.  Her mother would not accompany her along the harsh journey to London.  Rhiann was forced to face the uncertain future alone without the comfort of her mother or anyone else she loved, or even knew.

She discovered too late her mother chose a different end; perhaps to avoid the very one Rhiann now faced. At the last, the mistress of Heaven’s Crest armed herself with a boy’s blade, the only one she was capable of lifting from the store of the keep’s weapons, and disguised herself beneath the armor her sons wore when they were young.  They were dead too.  Lost to them in the early stages of the invasion, more grief heaped upon them as the news of each loss was carried back to the duke’s expansive seat by those sworn to serve her father.  Even as Rhiann took in each devastating blow with a dazed spirit, her mother remained unbroken until the final strike revealed the extent of the damage of its predecessors on the duchess’ proud but slender frame.  It was her husband’s death that shattered her mother’s spirit until she existed as only a shadow of her former self; as if her soul neglected to inform her body she no longer required its services.

The thin blade the duchess carried into battle that day was no match against the expertly wielded broadsword of an experienced knight. Rhiann tortured herself these past weeks with worries over her mother’s final confrontation with the enemy.  Did the man she faced laugh at the sword she raised against him, assuming it was one of the servant’s boys called upon to wield a weapon in the final defense of the duke’s home?  When did he learn his mistake?  Was it when the sound of her mother’s agony erupted in a woman’s voice from her lips as the arm that held her son’s blade was severed in two?  Did he realize the extent of his mistake when the blade she held fell uselessly to the ground and her blood joined that of the already fallen? Did the earth of Heaven’s Crest cry out in sympathy as it received the body of its fallen mistress?

Rhiann did her best to tend to her dying mother.  There was little to be done but give her the comfort of her presence as her mother bled out, her strength draining along with the blood staining the sheets of the bed she shared with her husband and where she gave birth to their five children.  Even if Rhiann could have found a way to heal her mother’s grievous wounds, she knew of no secret to mend her ravaged spirit.  So instead Rhiann honored her mother’s last request of her.  She held her hand and whispered lovingly to her, promising she would pray for her, and did not fight death as it stalked her mother’s battered body.  Together they asked God to forgive both of their sins, though silently Rhiann wondered what sins they could have possibly committed that such a deadly penance was the required offering to expiate them.  The Normans at least did not violate her mother’s sick room, but stood guard outside her door lest Rhiann attempt to escape or think to join her mother in death and thus thwarting their mission.

As soon as the duchess drew her final breath, Rhiann was taken sobbing from the dim room and literally thrown on a horse to carry her to London. She was not even allowed to see to the details of her mother’s burial.  Her old nurse, Addy, promised to see to the task.  It was a futile promise and they both knew it but Rhiann was able to pause in her grief long enough to nod her grateful appreciation for the old woman’s fervent vow.  In her mind she consoled herself with the thought of her mother being peacefully laid to rest beside her father in the family burial plot.  She doubted the Norman invaders would extend her that courtesy, but if she didn’t know the truth with certainty, Rhiann saw no harm in clinging to the one fantasy left to her in her current bleak reality.

Rhiann wished her mother had confided her intent to her, even as she acknowledged that though her mother might choose the escape death offered for herself, she would not force the same choice upon her daughter.  Maybe it was because her mother foolishly clung to the hope the Normans would honor Rhiann’s youth and her former status as a lady.  Rhiann could no longer delude herself with such foolish fantasies. She was a prisoner of war and guessed her former high status only guaranteed her a more public execution in the sight of the new king.  For what other reason would they have dragged her to London in such haste and under such heavy guard?

Rhiann was sunk too deep in her melancholy musings to pay attention to her surroundings.  At the moment it was requiring every ounce of the will power she still possessed to simply remain upright.  She therefore missed the imperious summons from the huge man seated at the head of the large table enjoying his mid-day meal.  As a reward for her inattention she received a nudge in her back from one of the Norman knights who acted as her escort on the long trek to London.  At the unexpected contact, she tripped and would have fallen but for the quick reflexes of her captor who caught her before she keeled over and ended up humiliatingly sprawled at his feet on the cold,  stone floor. The bitter hate in her eyes as she raised them to his scarred face had him dropping his hand from where it gripped her arm to steady her.  At the same time he nodded towards the center of the room where the new king was awaiting her attention.

Rhiann turned her focus to the Norman duke who would be a king. She battled the nausea welling up inside her as she faced the man who stole her life and the lives of those she most loved.  At the same time she became reluctantly aware the large open hall where she still hovered at the entrance was crowded with knights, and not a few ladies, all of them watching her.  The smell of food permeated the room.  In her current state she couldn’t decide if the smell was making her more acutely aware of her hunger after her long fast, or if it was simply making her more nauseous. 

Finally she raised her glance and dared meet the arrogant gaze of the man who sat impatiently waiting for her attention.  She didn’t immediately drop her own as their glances met and their two wills clashed silently across the distance separating them. She remained unbowed before him, meeting the Norman duke’s intent regard with proud defiance.  The new king raised his brows at her unspoken challenge then motioned her forward with an abrupt sweep of his arm.  When she hesitated, the guard at her side raised his arm to give her another push in the king’s direction but the scathing look she sent him prevented him from seeing his intent through. With a silent inward sigh Rhiann accepted her escort would drag her across the scarred floor on her knees if necessary if she failed to quickly comply with the king’s unspoken demand.

Reluctantly she took a few halting steps in the new monarch’s direction, not wishing to approach any closer than was absolutely necessary.  His glance darkened at her continued show of defiance and he gestured to her again, indicating she was not to stop until she stood directly before him.  A hushed silence followed her halting progress across the crowded room as every conversation in the hall fell quiet and all eyes turned to watch her stilted approach towards the king.  Her feet stopped only a few small steps from where he sat at the head of a large wooden table, heavily laden with full trenchers of food and pitchers of freshly brewed ale. Her stomach roiled again as the rich smell assaulted her overtaxed senses. 

The silence holding sway over the room was now heavy with expectation.  Rhiann wondered at the change in the mood of the room even as she struggled to calm her stomach and keep her feet.  She risked a glance at the face of the man who summoned her, took immediate note of his fierce scowl and belatedly understood the new sense of anticipation from the silent observers. The witnesses to her humiliation seemed to close around them savoring apparently the prospect of the king’s punishment of her defiance, even though no one dared approach closer. Rhiann recognized she could put an end to her own dark forebodings by simply continuing to stand there.  She could ensure her death or imprisonment at the very least by refusing to give the man seated before her the show of respect he could demand as his right as the new king of England. 

Her pride waged a final battle with her wavering will as memories of holding her dying mother in her arms passed through her thoughts.  Two of her brothers’ bodies were returned home for burial in the initial months of the war.  Her father’s was returned to them towards the end of the invasion when a Norman victory was all but assured.  It was that day her mother truly died… on the chilly autumn morning when she could no longer deny the truth of the rumors of her husband’s loss.  The last assault on Heaven’s Crest merely added the final indignation to the insult of a war that had already stolen everyone and everything she most cared for.  Her body lingered long enough to be felled in the final offensive, but long before the last bitter autumn morning, her mother’s heart was buried on the hill next to the chapel along with the bodies of her husband and sons.

Even the Normans kept silent as Rhiann flew down the stairs at the sight of her mother’s limp body being carried into the hall, discovered only after the formalities of surrender and disarmament were attended to.  Her mother was barely conscious when she bid Rhiann a brief and bittersweet farewell before pressing the stone Rhiann now wore around her neck into hands trembling too violently to receive it.  The stone clattered to the hard floor and landed in the pool of her mother’s blood spreading around her from the carelessly bound stump that was once her arm.  Rhiann knelt dry eyed on the floor, her eyes fixed on the stone, already dark without the warmth of her mother’s skin to light the fire within.  There was little to distinguish it from its bloody surroundings as the fresh blood took on the darker, almost black color of the stone.

Their enemies all but carried them both to her parents’ chambers.  Her mother’s breath was shallow as Rhiann knelt beside the bed.  Her eyes opened as Rhiann gripped her hand and gently pushed the matted hair back from her beautiful face.  There was no desperate attempt to stop the flow of blood, to disturb their final moments together with useless, intrusive activity.  Green eyes held their mirror image and what passed between mother and daughter could not be carried by an exchange of inadequate words.  Her mother’s hand reached for the stone Rhiann clutched in her hand.  “You are its keeper now, daughter.  Before I leave this world I would know I have not failed completely in the trust my own mother placed in me.”  Rhiann understood what was being asked of her.  Still it was with great reluctance she slipped the thin chain over her head and tearfully watched the smile softening her mother’s pain-filled glance as the stone settled between her breasts.

Rhiann wasn’t aware she was swaying unsteadily on her feet, her eyes blind as her thoughts drifted back over those final moments with her mother. She was so tired of the constant battle to keep despair at bay.  She was tired of this war and all it wrought – the deaths of her family, the loss of her home, the loss of everything she once called her own.  There was no her own any longer. She supposed she didn’t even own the clothes on her back.  She fought the tears springing to her eyes at the thought and fell into a respectful curtsey before the new king. Perhaps she no longer feared death, and in fact believed she might even welcome the escape its cold fingers held tantalizingly out to her, but she had no desire for her death to be preceded by the sting of the lash on her back for insolence.  She therefore rose when the new king bid her but kept her eyes lowered.