Chapter 1 #2
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘You are the Earl, and it is your sword. If we are beset with invaders then I wish to know that you will keep us safe. Go: swing the sword. Marshal Brice will observe and assess your form.’
She took a step back, praying that Ellis would not injure himself – or one of his audience.
The nursemaid went to speak – ‘Ellis, are you quite . . .’ – when the tiny Earl heaved the sword up, swung it as high as he could, stumbled, and embedded the tip several inches into the soft earth at his feet.
All three adults leapt back.
Ellis stared at the place where the sword was lodged in the ground.
Jo took a moment to steady her breathing, then finally bent down so she was eye level with him.
‘What must you know, if you are the Earl?’ she asked.
Ellis tugged at the sword. It didn’t move.
‘You must know your own strengths and limitations,’ she continued calmly. ‘Your sword is very impressive, but what would have happened if you attempted that swing in a tourney?’
Ellis considered this. ‘I . . .’ he started, working it out. ‘If my sword were stuck, I would have been hit.’
‘Exactly. If your sword had not been so heavy, you would have been able to right it and defend yourself against an opponent’s blow. But now—’ she gestured to the ground, ‘you cannot.’
Ellis tugged harder at the sword. Still it did not move.
‘Come,’ Jo said, doing her best to appear put-upon.
‘We need to make the final preparations for your guests. Marshal Brice needs to ensure the armoury is ready for use, which includes your sword. It must be sharpened and polished so it can be displayed.’ Ellis made a face, so she continued.
‘And someone must head to the kitchens to see if the cook has found a solution for their beetle infestation . . .’
That caught Ellis’s attention. He paused in his efforts to remove the sword from the ground. ‘Beetles?’
‘Yes,’ Jo said, distractedly. ‘One of the kitchen girls moved a basket of vegetables to find a whole nest of them beneath.’
Ellis’s eyes sparkled. ‘Are they very large?’
‘Huge, to hear the kitchen girl speak of them,’ said Jo.
‘Although I have never seen beetles of the size she described in these parts. The cook is furious, of course, for they’ve ruined all those vegetables, and her staff have been set to clearing out the awful things instead of preparing for the tournament. ’
She pretended to think for a moment, then looked back down towards Ellis.
‘Perhaps your nursemaid could take you to speak to the cook?’ she asked him. ‘As the Earl, it is important that you know of all threats to our keep. They can be the first invaders you vanquish.’
‘Do you suppose there are many left?’
‘I am sure there must be some,’ Jo said, ‘given how many there were earlier.’
The sword was immediately forgotten as Jo directed Ellis towards the nursemaid with a smile.
‘Ensure you tell the cook that I sent you,’ she said to him. ‘She will be pleased that you have seen fit to deal with the matter yourself, my Lord.’
Ellis gave her a wide grin, grabbed the hand of the long-suffering nursemaid, and dragged her across the yard.
Jo let out a long breath as she watched his departing figure. His little adventure had pulled her from the laundry, where she had been instructing the maids on where to take fresh linens for those arriving for the tournament. She would have to hope that they had managed without her.
The upcoming event was supposed to be a celebration of Ellis’s new title, but it felt more like one for the death of her father. For many, it would be: they cared little for Ellis but had loathed the late Earl. Now he was gone.
Her father’s death should have been a loss. Dressed in mourning clothes, she had lingered beside his casket in silence, watching the flickering light of the torches against the rough stone wall. She had felt very little. She still did.
She had completed the requisite mourning period. The keep had been unnervingly silent. And then – like clouds lifting, like the first light of spring – a change came over the castle. It was not happiness, not quite, but the air felt fresh and hopeful.
Without her father, they all lived less in dread, although it often seemed as if the anxiety they had all felt was built into the stones of the castle itself; the mortar saturated with blood and fear. But it was growing less every day, the eerie sense of unease washing away like grime in the rain.
They hoped that the tournament would finally expel that sense entirely, even if it was a celebration in name alone.
The council that had gathered to rule before Ellis came of age saw it as a keen way to display the family’s status without making themselves – or the young, vulnerable earl – look like a threat.
Jo’s father had kept power through force and the promise of violence.
But like this, they could rely on good faith and familiarity while still ensuring that any who saw fit to push against the new earl would be treated to the sight of their wealth, power, and sizeable army.
It wasn’t just their father who had tarnished the family’s reputation.
Her brothers’ behaviour, too, needed to be atoned for.
Henry, the eldest and most dutiful son, had died years ago, leaving the family with two unsuitable heirs.
Leo, the next in line, had been dismissed and removed from the keep when Jo was only fifteen after becoming attached to one of their servants.
Jo had never been privy to all the details of the affair, but the arguments between Leo and their father had rung through the castle.
Leo’s disavowal and removal had been swift and merciless.
Even now, when she closed her eyes, she could still hear the sound of the dogs.
It had been a dark time for the remaining de Foucart children – still reeling from the sudden death of their eldest brother only to lose another sibling.
It had been worse for Penn, her remaining brother.
Younger than Jo and struggling under the weight of a title far too heavy for him, he had snapped.
He had fled the keep, ruining the betrothal which would have granted their father the ancestral power he craved, as well as destroying the reputation of Penn’s once-intended.
Her brothers’ disastrous legacies had set a precedent for her own behaviour. She had to make up for their crimes. She had to be good, be a dutiful daughter like her elder sister Rosalind and buff out the stains that Leo and Penn had left.
Her upcoming marriage would do that. It would make it clear that the family’s reputation was not entirely in tatters, and besides: the tie to another noble family would secure them even more allies.
It wasn’t a surprising development: Jo had been training for marriage for twenty-seven years. But now the expectations were greater than ever. She was more valuable as a bride than a sister.
She was approaching the matter practically.
Her mother had been so young when she wed, forced to marry a tyrant against her will, and Jo had been terrified that her future would mirror the late Countess Eleanor’s.
It was what had, in part, encouraged her to learn all she could about the running of keep: a pleased husband would be less likely to treat her cruelly.
But with the support of her stepmother, Isabelle, and Ellis’s council, she hoped that she would not be tied to a cruel man at all. As the second wife of Jo’s father, Isabelle especially was aware of the pain of that sort of marriage, and Jo trusted that she would do her best to prevent it.
Jo was not unhappy to wed: a good match would free her from the de Foucart keep.
Even without her father, the castle was full of ghosts.
It would be good to move on and move away, just as her siblings had, in one way or another.
She was clever and capable, as she so often tried to remind herself.
She would flourish away from the keep, if she was granted the chance to do so.
She was not walking into a prison, but escaping one.
It was what she had been born to do, after all. What one did, as a noblewoman. And she would do it well.
Incredibly, the tournament really was mending the divide.
Most of the invitations they had sent directly had been accepted, and as word spread they had received news every day of more people who were attending.
People loved entertainment, and it was clear that many were willing to forget, if not forgive, the actions of her father in exchange for a week of jousting and fighting and good, strong ale.
And all of it was to celebrate a boy not even eight years old with a sword too large for him to swing.
She would miss her little brother when she left the keep, and had hoped that he really had taken on at least some of her lessons.
She could not bear for him to grow up into the shape of their father.
Giving brief thanks to Marshal Brice, who was now inspecting the tip of the sword for damage, she smoothed her skirts and headed towards the gatehouse where she had promised to meet Countess Isabelle.
Jo had fallen into an easy rapport with her late father’s wife.
When Isabelle had married Earl Marcus de Foucart, Jo had felt uneasy at best and cautiously hostile at worst towards the woman who was replacing her mother.
After he had died not six months ago, Isabelle had relaxed into the role of widow with an ease that Jo hadn’t expected of her, and she had realised, belatedly, that her father’s temper and cruel nature had been a spectre over Isabelle’s life, too.
Closer in age to her new children than her husband, Isabelle’s lot had been the same as most noblewomen – the same as Jo’s was now – a marriage bartered for profit and power and little else.