Fairest of Them All (Once Upon A Time #3)

Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

Holly snatched in a wheezing breath, her mind too foggy to determine if she’d been impaled by a falling timber or trampled by a herd of elk. Stars twinkled in her vision, fading slowly to a firmament of patchy grass. Only then did she realize the massive object pinning her face down to the ground was her husband’s body. It was a testament to both his keenly honed reflexes and his judgment that he had executed such a maneuver without crushing her fragile bones to dust.

The beguiling mint of his breath singed her nape. Her first desperate instinct was to squirm out from under him. That urge was stifled by the implacable press of his lean hips against her backside. It was then that she realized her skirts had twisted in the fall and there was nothing to separate his loins from the naked swell of her rump but her delicate chemise and the thin skein of his hose. Her eyes widened with shock. Not only did Austyn not wear a padded codpiece; he had no need of one. She pressed her cheek to the cool grass, afraid to so much as breathe.

She flinched as a quavering roar descended from one of the towers above them. “Goddamned leeches! Cursed whore-mongering tax collectors! You can trot right back to your bastard whore’s son of a king and tell him I’ll not contribute a ha’penny to fatten his English coffers. This is Welsh land, and Welsh land it shall remain as long as this old man has a gust of breath left in his body!”

Austyn lifted his head and called out, “Stay your arrows and your tongue, old man! I—”

Another arrow whistled past. Austyn pressed his mouth to Holly’s ear, warming it with his breath. “Stay down. No matter what happens, stay flat on your belly.”

Had it not been such an absurd fancy, Holly would have almost sworn his lips brushed her nape in the ghost of a caress before he sprang to his feet in one lithe motion. She barely resisted the urge to jerk him back down. For his protection or her own, she could not have said. She felt naked without his body shielding hers, but he looked even more vulnerable as he strode boldly to the center of the courtyard, offering his heart as an unguarded target to the bowman in the tower.

“Father, it’s Austyn,” he shouted in an irrefutable tone of authority. “I’ve come home.” He jerked one of the gold-laden panniers from the pack horse Nathanael was cowering behind and held it triumphantly aloft. “And I’ve brought enough gold so that you’ll never have to fear Edward’s tax collectors again!”

The courtyard hung on tenterhooks of silence. Holly held her breath, surprised by the depth of her fear that the next arrow would make a widow of her.

But from the tower came only a sheepish “Harrumph,” then the clatter of retreating footsteps. Nathanael crept out from behind the pack horse while Carey helped Elspeth up from her kneeling position. Austyn lowered the pannier to the ground, the sudden slump of his shoulders betraying his relief.

“Does your father greet all of his guests with such enthusiasm?” Holly could not resist asking as she climbed to her feet. Nathanael shot her a frantic glance, and Holly wrestled her rebellious skirts into submission before Austyn could turn around.

“Just be thankful I hid the oil for boiling before I left.” Austyn ran a hand wearily over his beard.

They appeared to be standing in the main courtyard of an ancient stone keep ringed by wattle-and-daub cottages and outbuildings. The master architect of the concentric castle had plainly hoped to preserve the keep as the bustling heart of his creation. Now it slumbered beneath the same tragic spell of unfulfilled promise that enslaved the entire promontory.

Full dark had descended and bats flitted from merlon to parapet. At least she didn’t have to fret about them getting tangled in her hair, Holly thought ruefully, edging a few steps nearer to Austyn.

An iron-studded door creaked open to reveal a hesitant huddle of castle denizens. Several of them gripped torches in whitened fists. As they crept forth from the keep, shuffling their feet in unison like some timid dragon with twenty-four legs and twelve swiveling heads, torchlight flickered over their faces, revealing expressions of chilling dread.

Holly took an involuntary step away from her husband, shying away from his grim profile. How was she to survive being wedded to a man who evoked such terror in his own retainers? A frisson of primal fear danced down her spine.

A man whose scalp was as hairless and pink as a newborn’s rump separated himself from the quivering mass. “Welcome home, master. It seems your journey was a successful one.”

Austyn clapped him on the shoulder without eliciting so much as a flinch. “Aye, Emrys. I’ve brought you a new mistress. ’Tis far past time, wouldn’t you say?”

Holly’s confusion mounted. The servants clustered around Austyn, almost as if seeking his protection. Each of them seemed only too eager to touch him or offer some word of welcome or encouragement. She was the one receiving the fearful looks, the poorly concealed glances of dread. Why they weren’t afraid of Austyn, she realized with a start. They were afraid of her!

Her suspicion was confirmed when Austyn reached to draw her out of the shadows. Several of his minions took hasty steps backward, stumbling over their own feet. One old fellow even dared to wiggle two fingers at her in the universal sign to ward away evil.

As the ruthless torchlight struck her face, nearly blinding her, Holly resisted the urge to shield its desolate condition with her hands. Instead, she forced herself to stand straight and tall, bracing herself for the repugnance they were sure to express at her appearance. Austyn slipped one brawny arm around her waist.

A collective gasp went up.

“Oh, my,” breathed a female voice. “She’s precious!”

“Aye,” said a man, drawing off his feathered cap in tribute. “I’ve never seen a more perfect lady. Why she’s like a little doll!”

Holly could only blink in shock, utterly mystified by their reaction. Austyn was nudged away as they swarmed around her, touching her hacked-off hair, her mud-spattered gown, her blistered nose with coos of awe and delight. The old man who had shaken his fingers at her even dropped to his knees to bestow a kiss upon the damp hem of her skirt. Nathanael and Elspeth gaped in openmouthed astonishment.

Holly had graciously accepted more than her share of adulation in her short life, but she’d never been worshiped with such childlike rapture. She could not comprehend their curious behavior. Were they all blind?

She shot Austyn a baffled glance. His cheeks were taut with what might have been chagrin, but his eyes sparkled with some secret amusement. “May I present to all of you my bride and the new mistress of Gavenmore—Lady”—he hesitated, glancing about as if to ensure the area was free of potential missiles— “Holly.”

The teasing intimacy of his smile coaxed an unbidden flip from Holly’s heart. A bemused ripple of laughter escaped her.

“Gwyneth? Gwyneth, is that you?”

At the plaintive query, a shadow passed over Austyn’s face, fading his smile. A tense hush claimed the courtyard. The servants parted as a wasted figure crept out of one of the corner towers and made his way toward Holly. The blustering bravado their assailant had exhibited upon their arrival seemed to have melted away.

He lifted a trembling hand to touch her cheek. “Gwyneth?” he repeated. “Is that you?”

Holly found herself gazing into gray-lashed eyes that might have been twins of Austyn’s had their frosty flame not been extinguished by shadows of the past A mane of silver hair framed the man’s furrowed face.

Austyn rested a hand on his shoulder. “Nay, Father, ’tis not Gwyneth. ’Tis my bride.”

“A bride,” the man echoed wistfully, aged beyond his years by his shrunken posture and the quavering note in his voice. Holly realized in that moment that Austyn’s father was not just eccentric; he was mad.

Austyn’s wary gaze rested not on his father, but on Holly’s face. He plainly feared she would slap the impertinent stranger away with some scathing rebuke.

She caught the old man’s chilled hand, warming the frail parchment of his skin between her palms. “My name is Holly, sir,” she said, bestowing a gentle smile on him. “If you will allow me to call you ‘Father,’ perhaps in time you’ll come to think of me as your own daughter.”

This time when Holly met Austyn’s gaze over his father’s stooped shoulder, the mysterious regard in her husband’s eyes wrenched her heart with a violence that was almost painful.

“Aye, our master is a sly one, he is. Frighting us all half to death by running off to woo the most beautiful damsel in all of Britain. Why I’d box his ears as I did when he was a lad if he didn’t outweigh me by five stone. Still might if he gives me cause!”

Holly followed Winifred, wife of Emrys Ab-Madoc, through the shadowy warren of passageways that would eventually lead to her chamber, reluctant to point out that the tiny woman would have to stand on a stool to box Austyn’s chin, much less his ears. The faded flax of her hair would have betrayed her as Carey’s mother even had Holly not witnessed her kissing and pinching the bowman’s cheeks with equal vigor, inciting a blush of lurid pink from his fair skin. The woman chirped like a sparrow, but bobbed along the narrow vaulted corridors like a plump gray pigeon.

Holly was thankful for her prattling company. Elspeth and Nathanael had lingered by the kitchen fire to partake of a hearty stew, the mere sight of which had turned Holly’s bloated stomach and she much preferred Winifred’s chatter to the chattering of her own teeth as she contemplated her future as Austyn’s wife.

“Our family has served Gavenmore for generations. My Emrys is the master’s steward, but I’m the one that carries the keys.” A faint clanking as they climbed a winding stone staircase confirmed her boast.

“What of Sir Austyn’s father?” Holly asked. “I can’t help but notice ’tis not the father, but the son, you call your master.”

Winifred shook her head sadly and tapped her forefinger against her temple. “The old master ain’t been right in the noggin since his lady died. I suspect he never will be. He spends half his days cursing the king and the other half searching the castle for his beloved Gwyneth.”

“How tragic,” Holly replied, thinking how easy it would have been for her own papa to succumb to the madness of grief.

Caer Gavenmore itself seemed to have fallen under the same dark spell of mourning. Holly had grown accustomed to flitting through the spacious corridors and airy chambers of Castle Tewksbury with their glass-fitted windows and generous embrasures. The shuttered windows and cramped arrow loops of this ancient keep loomed out of the shadows like malevolent eyes. Cobwebs frosted the hanging sconces, drifting like tattered veils stirred by an invisible sigh.

Carey’s mother carried a tallow candle to light their way over the uneven flagstones, but each time it wavered, Holly held her breath, fearing the next chill draft would cast them into darkness. To her intense relief, Winifred sheltered the flame with her cupped hand as they bustled past a curving stairwell that wended upward into darkness.

A woman’s moan, low and poignant with some unspeakable anguish, pierced the musty air. Holly hesitated, every meager hair on her head tingling with alarm.

Winifred threw a cheery smile over her shoulder, assuring Holly that her imagination was once more triumphing over her common sense. Holly pressed a palm to her galloping heart and forced her feet into motion, eagerly awaiting Winifred’s explanation that the unearthly keening was simply the wind whistling through some narrow crack in the mortar.

“Don’t mind the noise, child. ’Tis only the master’s grandmother.”

“His grandmother? She’s still alive?” Holly cast a nervous glance back at the stairwell, scrambling to calculate the woman’s age. She adored classical literature, but Nathanael had pronounced her paltry brain unfit for the masculine science of mathematics.

Winifred waved an airy hand. “Of course not. The poor dear threw herself out the tower window after her husband locked her away for flirting with a minstrel.” She shot Holly a knowing wink. “Some say ’twas despondency that drove her to it, but I say ’twas more likely boredom. After all, ten years is a long time to endure your own company.”

Holly was still pondering that grim revelation when they rounded a corner to be assailed by the deafening clatter of chains. She clapped her hands over her ears, removing them only when the clamor died to a ghostly echo.

She swallowed a congealed lump of fear, searching Winifred’s serene countenance hopefully. “A loose chain on the drawbridge? Bats in the belfry?”

Winifred shook her head, clucking her tongue dolefully. “That would be the bride of the master’s great-great-great grandfather.”

Holly didn’t have to be Pythagoras to calculate the mathematical odds of that particular Gavenmore lady still being alive, “I don’t suppose the woman died in her sleep of natural causes,” she said in a small voice.

“I’d say not. Old Caradawg of Gavenmore had her burned at the stake in the castle courtyard.” Winifred’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “He claimed she was a witch, but ’twas rumored the careless chit simply showed a bit of ankle while climbing into her litter. Ah, here we are! I sent the maidservants ahead to ready your chamber.”

The woman threw open a massive oaken door and backed Holly inside. Chucking her fondly beneath the chin, she said, “Don’t mind the White Lady, dear. She doesn’t usually trouble anyone unless the moon is full.”

With those dubious words of comfort, Winifred shut the door in Holly’s face. Holly stood staring at the door for several dumbfounded minutes, afraid to turn around for fear some ghoul would be waiting to greet her, its skeletal fingers dripping clods of grave dirt She’d always heard the Welsh were a superstitious lot. Now she understood why.

“Steady, girl,” she whispered before forcing herself to face the chamber.

A plump apricot of a moon peeped coyly through the arrow loop on the opposite wall. Holly clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a shriek. She wasn’t sure which would frighten her more—a nocturnal visit from the “White Lady of Gavenmore” or one of her husband’s homicidal ancestors.

Rushlight flickered over the mundane cheer of the chamber, mocking her fears. A basin of steaming water rested next to a linen towel on a low-slung chest. Her scant belongings had been piled in one corner. The paintings on the plastered ceiling were chipped and faded, but here and there Holly could make out pastoral scenes of scampering pups and idly grazing sheep. The four-poster bed draped in pleated silk made her sigh with yearning. ’Twas as if every comfort had been deliberately designed to lure the weary traveler to rest.

Holly longed to succumb. And why shouldn’t she? she asked herself. After all, her husband had made it plain that he did not seek to share her bed. That he preferred the ephemeral memory of his lady fair to the carnal knowledge of his wife. She had seen his eyes caress the mysterious memento of that liaison with a hunger that made the affections offered by her own admirers seem only pale echoes of passion. Austyn might treat her with amused tolerance, even kindness, but it was the phantom of his ladylove who haunted his heart and his bed.

Fighting an absurd wave of melancholy, Holly jerked the cotte and chemise over her head and began to unwrap her breasts, defiantly inviting the night air to caress them. After spicing the basin of water with a few precious droplets of myrrh oil, she rinsed the ash from her hair, bathed her face and body, then fished out her hand mirror to give her reflection a perusal in the cracked glass.

She would have almost sworn the glossy silk of her hair was beginning to curl at the tips. She ran her tongue along the edge of her teeth. The stains were definitely fading. She would have to send Elspeth and Nathanael foraging in the forest for more walnuts on the morrow. She laid aside the mirror with a sigh. She was beginning to feel as divided as her reflection— relieved to have escaped her husband’s amorous demands yet insulted by his lack of regard for her.

“What did you expect, pudding head?” Holly inquired of herself as she smothered the rushes, then padded across a plush bearskin rug to the bed. “That he would lift your ugly little mask, discover your true inner beauty, and declare his undying love for you?”

A self-effacing giggle escaped her as she slid naked between the scratchy linen sheets, luxuriating in the forgotten pleasure of feeling like herself again. She snuggled into the feather pillow, refusing to give voice to her most secret fear—that Austyn might lift her mask and find nothing at all beneath.

The following morning Holly marched toward the grassy bluff where Emrys had told her she would find Austyn, determined to confront her husband about Winifred’s grisly tales.

At least her mouth no longer tasted as if she’d been licking the hearthstones, she thought Upon waking to discover the painful pinkness of her skin had subsided to a burnished russet certain to repulse any man who favored a lady over a milkmaid, she had declined to paint a mustache of ashes on her upper lip.

Holly topped the crest of the bluff to discover a man kneeling on the bank of a crystalline pool. He wore no surcoat or tunic. The day was already warm and a glistening sheen of sweat bronzed the well-defined slabs of muscle and sinew in his shoulders and back. Holly felt tiny beads of sweat bud along her own brow at the sight She fanned herself with her hand, feeling oddly breathless.

She must have made some small sound for the man began to rise and turn. Realizing too late that this man wore no beard or mustache, and flustered at the prospect of being caught ogling a stranger, she blurted out, “Forgive me, sir. I was told I could find Sir Austyn…”

Her voice faded to a wordless sigh as the man wiped the mask of soap lather from his face and she discovered her entire life had been nothing but a cruel and vicious lie.