Chapter 32
Ash
Perhaps, Ash thought, upon reflection, hosting a wedding feast had been a calming and pleasurable experience. It was, at least, preferable to playing host to Laurence Forrett, Francis and Hugh.
They had spent the morning hunting, although the sport was in name alone.
It had been declared a men’s outing: Agnes had been barred, which Ash found deeply irritating not only because of Agnes’s unique relationship to manliness, but also because it meant she was not there to deflect Hugh or her family’s odious friend for him.
She had brightened this past day or so, and he resented wasting time when he could have been with her and Olly instead.
After their so-called hunt, they had been sequestered into the side chamber. Francis and Laurence had gone to fetch more wine, leaving Ash and Olly alone with Hugh.
‘And how is your wife?’ Hugh said, as if sensing his thoughts.
‘She is much improved,’ Ash said. ‘It was only a passing sickness.’
Hugh laughed derisively. Olly bristled at Ash’s side.
‘May God grant me the foolishness of youth,’ he said. ‘Did your father teach you nothing?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Sickness is one of the first signs a woman is with child.’
Ash’s skin went cold. ‘What?’
Hugh glanced at him. ‘Ah, I see you truly had not considered it. Apologies if I may have ruined any surprises.’
Ash couldn’t see his face. His vision swam.
‘I … I—’ His ears rang, muffling all sound.
‘Ash?’
The room fell away, leaving only fog. He could hear shouting. Screaming, coming from the very walls themselves. He was a child, a tiny child, and the keep was full of panic.
His mother had screamed when Raff was born, too, but that had been different – different in a way his child’s mind couldn’t describe.
This screaming bit into him, shot into his bones, twisting and cruel and horrible.
But the silence, the silence after had been worse.
A ringing, empty, sucking silence broken only by the whining cry of his baby sister.
It rang in his ears, echoes of the past and the future. There were binds around his chest, squeezing the air out of his lungs. All that was left was fear, blind, naked fear, vibrating up his spine and into his skull.
‘Ash?’
That voice was another memory. In the fog, he couldn’t quite recall if it really was just a memory, or if it was real. If it had ever been real.
‘What is happening?’
That voice was not as familiar, but he knew he should fear it. He flinched back.
‘I do not know … Ash.’
He couldn’t breathe, let alone talk. He heard his name again, through rushing ears. A hand wrapped around his own.
‘I cannot lose her,’ he managed, gripping tight. ‘I will not— I cannot let it happen. God, Agnes, I am sorry—’
‘Ash, breathe. It is me; it is Oliver. You are safe.’
Oliver. His Olly. He was a part of this, too. He was tied up in them. How would Olly survive it, when she died? Would they have each other to cling to, or would the loss drive them apart?
‘Nothing has happened,’ Olly said calmingly. ‘It’s all right, Ash. Really. Nothing has—’
‘But it will.’
He could picture it so clearly – the sombre castle, the empty sky above, the red sheets, the red floor, the red hands of his father. His hands, coated in that same violent hue.
‘I have killed her,’ Ash said. ‘It is too late …’
‘Do not say that,’ Olly whispered, gripping his arm. ‘You—’ He must have been talking to Hugh. ‘Fetch Lady Agnes. Alert her that Ash is unwell, and bid she find us.’
‘But—’
‘Do it.’
A door closed. After a moment – after an age – Ash felt himself slowly coming back, aware of the hard floor beneath him. Had he fallen? He could not remember.
‘He’s gone,’ Olly said.
Thank God. Ash leaned back against the chair, breathing through his nose as the spinning stopped.
The air smelt fragrant and sweet. Someone had hung herbs to dry beside the fire: lavender and sage.
He pulled away some of the lavender, twirling it between his palms, crushing the tiny little purple buds beneath his fingers.
He sniffed at the overwhelmingly aromatic scent.
Olly was right. Lavender did give him a headache.
He tossed it aside. Olly lowered himself beside him and leaned his head on his shoulder.
‘I do not want her to die,’ Ash said at last.
It was all he could manage, his voice strangled around his own tongue. Olly went still.
‘You knew you would need to beget heirs,’ he said cautiously. ‘Did this not worry you then?’
Ash shook his head, numbly. ‘I … I never assumed I would be so involved in the matter. I thought … I thought she would resent me, or merely tolerate me, and so it would not matter if I was there or not. It is not as if— not as if I would have feelings for her. Not as if I had so much to fear.’
‘“Her”?’ Olly repeated. ‘Do you mean Agnes?’
Ash shook his head again, more fiercely now. ‘No, not Agnes. Just … her. My wife.’
‘But she is your wife.’
‘She is. But I did not expect to care … not like this.’
Olly took his hand. They sat in silence until Ash’s heart calmed.