The Lily Brand (28 page)

Drake’s eyes turned round, Justin’s face grim. “Dear God,” he said softly.

And for the first time it occurred to Troy that his wife might well have been involved in the accident. That she might be hurt.
Or dead.
His heart missed a beat, only to start hammering in his chest the next moment—underneath the skin that bore her mark. She might be dead. “I must go to the village,” he murmured, and swung himself onto his stallion. His hands, when they picked up the reins, trembled.

Both Drake and Justin got back in the saddle. “We’ll come with you,” Drake said. “God knows what you’ll find.”

They rode fast and in strained silence. Troy felt neither the rain nor the cold any longer. His mind whirled with images of his wife’s body, broken and bloodied, and he had to fight the bile that rose in his throat. The dark landscape, which he had loved for so long, suddenly seemed to have turned into a beast with a thousand eyes, ready to devour the unwary wanderer should his foot slip. The familiar landmarks became nightmarish visions of the netherworld, his father’s ruins a bony finger raised toward the skies, a
mene tekel
in mortar and stone.

Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting
, it seemed to say.

And his wife was paying the price.

“No,” he groaned. “
No!
” He spurred his horse on, faster, always faster. He could not rest, could never rest, until he had seen his wife. His hand crept up and splayed wide over his chest.
A lily for Lillian.

“Troy!” Justin’s horse drew even with his. “Troy, take heed! The ground’s slippery.”

Drake came up on his other side. “She will be all right, Troy. I am sure she will be all right. She might not even have been
near
the church when the accident happened. Heck, I’m sure she’s spent the day wandering around your gardens!”

Yet Troy just shook his head and rode on at breakneck speed.

You art found wanting…

He had behaved abominably, and if his wife was now taken away from him, was paying for his sins, he would carry this guilt for the rest of his life.

There were lanterns lit all around the village, candles in the windows making the rain sparkle like diamonds scattered in the streets. Without conscious thought, Troy let his gaze stray to the familiar bump of the village church against the night-darkened sky, only to find it empty and void of all but clouds and rain.

The normally peaceful and silent night was filled with the sounds of men swearing, of the squelch of people’s footsteps as they hurried through the rain, dashing to and fro, from house to house. Above, thunder rolled, and for a moment Troy was thrown back in time, to a bloodied piece of land somewhere in Europe, heavens knew where; he had lost track of times and places. In the end, all fields of death were the same; the stink of the gunpowder smoke, of burnt flesh, the cries of wounded men and animals, the roll of the drums and booming of the cannons all blending together into a symphony of death and destruction, of terror and madness, a man-created never-ending hell—

A flash of lightning made him start.

He blinked several times, and the vision of war vanished, reverted to a small village struck by disaster.

His
village.

His
people.

He had no time to engage in private musings on his personal horrors.

With a dull thump and a splash of water, his feet landed on the muddy lane. “We’d best go and see who is in charge around here. The vicar most likely,” he said over his shoulder, his voice loud and clear. He did not wait for his friends’ answer, but strode down the lane, his tired horse stumbling in his wake.

Most of the people did not seem to recognize him in the flickering light. Some started, stared at him, wide-eyed, and mumbled a quick, “Good evening, my lord.” Then they hurried on, their steps full of purpose as if they were bent on untold tasks.

Troy shook his head and pushed on. Never had the way through the winding lanes seemed longer; never had the time so dragged on until they finally reached the vicarage, a snug little building with potted flowers in front. Yet this night the rain had pelted down the flowers, had torn the blossoms off the stalks.

The sight made Troy shiver.

Impatiently he pounded on the front door. When it opened, it was not the kind old face of the vicar that greeted him, but the vicar’s wife. “Your husband? Is he here?” Troy barked in lieu of a greeting.

With her frilled white cap and her large, round spectacles, Mrs. Norris looked like a startled owl. She blinked, once, twice, before she found her composure. “I’m afraid he is out, my lord. He’s taking the rounds, looking after the sick and the wounded.”

“Isn’t that the doctor’s task?” Exasperation made his voice sharp. “Why hasn’t anybody sent for him? I doubt that your husband is very skilled in tending wounds.”

Confusion registered on Mrs. Norris’s face. “My husband? Of course not.”

“Troy? What is the matter?” asked Justin, as he and Drake stepped up beside him, the reins of the horses dangling from their hands. Seriousness had sharpened their features, creating sterner lines and angles.

“The doctor is still in Keighlin. The vicar is tending the wounded instead.”

“That’s the most caper-witted scheme I’ve ever heard,” Drake remarked. “Why hasn’t anybody fetched the doctor from Keighlin?”

Her eyes almost as large and round as her spectacles, Mrs. Norris looked from one to the other. “But they did, my lord,” she said. “One of Lord Ravenhurst’s stablehands tried to ride to Keighlin, but the river’s swelled and the bridge’s been washed away.”

“Dear God.” Troy rubbed his forehead, fighting the despair that threatened to swallow him up. His wife was missing, his village was in desperate circumstances, and he was as helpless as a kitten.

“Now look, we have to establish some sort of order,” Justin said firmly. “Establish what exactly happened, how many are wounded, and then we have to organize the looking after them. Naturally, we must relieve your vicar. I doubt that the poor man is at all able to deal with such a crisis.”

Troy nodded. “You are right, of course.” He glanced at his friend. “But there is also that other matter.” All at once, his chest felt constricted, and he had to take a deep breath before he could go on. “My wife. We have to find her.”

“Your wife, my lord?” Mrs. Norris cut in, in a tone of total amazement. “Lady Ravenhurst? But… she is the one who is tending the wounded. My husband is only assisting her.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Troy turned back to look at the woman. It was still the vicar’s squat wife with the frilly cap and the oversized spectacles, and yet it was as if she had suddenly turned into Pythia, talking in dark riddles that made no sense to the listener.

“I thought you knew, my lord,” Mrs. Norris went on. “My Lady Ravenhurst has been helping Mistress Nanette look after the ill for some time now. She was the one who gathered all the herbs, they say. Tonight she was desperate to stay with Mistress Nanette, of course, but in the circumstances.…” Her voice trailed away. Her lips lifted in a quick, tremulous smile, while she pulled a white lacy handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “I felt honored when she asked me to stay with her.”

Troy swallowed hard. “Stay… with Mistress Nanette?” Apprehension sliced through his first relief that his wife was unharmed.

“She was in the church when it happened, you know.” Mrs. Norris took off her spectacles as more tears spilled over and slowly ran down her withered cheeks. “She has such a good heart, Mistress Nanette—always thinks of others. She came to light a candle for those who were ill with fever.”

“How badly was she hurt?” Troy managed to force the question past his constricted throat.

“Oh, my lord.” Mrs. Norris pressed a hand to her mouth. Nevertheless, a muffled sob escaped. “She will not survive the night.”

“
Sacre dieu!
” Justin’s mutter was almost lost against Drake’s sharp inhalation.

Troy closed his eyes. His beautiful, brave wife was somewhere out there, looking after other people, while the person she must love most in the world lay dying.

Drake’s voice sounded flat when he asked, “Are there any more people who have sustained such grave injuries?”

With visible effort Mrs. Norris gathered her composure. “No, my lord, we believe not. Some of them were hurt by flying stones and such, and some were burnt when they extinguished the fire, but none so bad… so bad that—”

“Yes. I quite understand,” Drake said softly. “Troy…”

Troy opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder at his friends. “Would you make sure that there is enough dressing material and such? Bring linen down from the Hall, if need be.” He turned back to the vicar’s wife. “I should like to see Mistress Nanette.” To see if there was anything he could do. “Would you be so kind as to bring me to her, Mrs. Norris?”

She regarded him curiously, yet after she had dabbed at her eyes one last time, she stepped aside to let him in. “Of course, my lord.”

He left his sodden coat and jacket in the hallway and, in silence, followed Mrs. Norris up the stairs to a room at the end of the corridor. The first thing he saw when she opened the door was the fire in the hearth. The flames flickered merrily as if the world outside had never turned into chaos. It was a snug little room, the blanket on the bed lovingly crafted to resemble a sea of woolen flowers. However, there was nothing cozy about the petite, old woman who rested on the pile of pillows. Her eyes were closed, her skin so white and transparent that Troy could see the net of blue veins underneath.

“I have given her some laudanum,” Mrs. Norris whispered. “We hoped it would ease her pain and make her last hours easier.” She padded to the bed and touched the old woman’s bony hand. “Mistress Nanette? Lord Ravenhurst is here to see you.”

The woman’s lids fluttered, then her eyes opened, as small and dark as a sparrow’s. Slowly, she turned her head, and for the first time Troy saw the traces of blood that had dripped from her mouth to her chin. When she caught sight of him, a ghost of a smile flickered over her face.

“You are back, my lord.” Her voice was the merest whisper.

“Yes.” He stepped into the room, gave a nod to Mrs. Norris as she left.

“Have you… found… the wolves?”

“There were never any wolves in my forest.” He reached for a nearby chair and sat down.

“And yet you… went out… to hunt them.” This time, the smile stayed longer. “You have… a good heart… my lord.” On the woolen blanket her fingers twitched.

He took hold of her hand, held it between his palms to warm her cold flesh. Gently, he stroked his thumb over her aged skin. Her bones felt fragile and tiny like a small bird’s. “Hush.” A cold, hard lump had become lodged in his throat. “You should not tire yourself thus.”

“Ahh.” Her eyes closed. “But then… there is only one… one more journey for me to take.” She coughed, a painful, gurgling sound in her chest, and dark blood spilled over her lips. Her fingers spasmed in Troy’s hands.

“Here, let me help you.” On the small table beside the bed, he spotted a cloth floating in a bowl of water and a decanter of red wine. With one hand he reached for the cloth and wrung out the excess water. Gently, he wiped the blood from the old woman’s face. “There. Would you like a bit of wine?”

She nodded, so he poured her a glass. Stabilizing her shoulders with one hand, he held the glass to her lips. She took just the tiniest of sips before she turned her head away. He put the glass down and, with great care, let her sink back against the pillows.

For a few moments, she breathed heavily, exhausted even by this small motion.

Troy’s heart clenched painfully as he watched her. Compassion for the old woman mingled with memories of friends he had seen dying on the battlefields of the continent, young hopeful faces squashed and wiped out by a hellish war. He blinked and forced the memories back into the farthest recesses of his mind. Leaning forward, he took the old woman’s hand once more.

At his touch, her lids flickered and opened. Her eyes glinted with something like humor. “See?” she whispered. “One last journey… And there’s… not much time left.” Her gaze slid away. “…not much time…” Her eyes flickered, widened, and suddenly her hand gripped him tight. Her eyes darted back to meet his. “Lillian. Will you take care of my little girl?” With a surprising boost of strength she straightened, while agitated color suffused her face.

“Mistress Nanette…” Troy tried to calm her and keep her down on the bed.

“Will you take care of Lillian?” Her nails dug into his hand. “
Ma petite fille
… Will you protect her? Keep her from harm?” The blanket slipped, revealing the bright red stain that blossomed on her white nightgown.

“Yes, yes,” Troy soothed, hardly knowing what he was saying. “Of course, I will.” If only she would lie down again, so she would not hurt herself even more.

“A rowan tree grows before your house,” she muttered. “Guarding the gate from evil… She will not be able to come and get my girl,
mon petit
chou-chou
. No, she will not—”

“Nobody will get Lillian,” Troy said firmly.

The old woman’s eyes, dark and ominous, burnt into his. “She is evil…
mauvaise, très mauvaise
… She took everything… everything… poisoned our lives.”

“Who did?” He tried to steady her with one hand around her shoulders. “Not Lillian?”

Her voice sank down to a near inaudible mutter. “Camille did… Camille… he married her…
oh, mon pauvre chou-chou
,” she moaned.

“It is all right,” Troy soothed. “Your girl is safe. Lillian is safe now.”

“She took everything… destroyed everything… every last memory…” Abruptly, her grip on his hand relaxed. Her strength spent, she reverted to a tiny, frail old woman.

He helped her lie down, all the time crooning softly. “It is all right… everything is fine…”

“…everything…” she murmured, as her eyes drifted closed. “…even the locket…”

Troy’s hands stilled, and he thought his heart did, too. “The locket?”

“My girl’s golden locket… her mother’s locket… most precious. She would have taken it.
Mon pauvre chou-chou
…”