Chapter Twenty-Two
Isabella was sleeping when the bell began to ring. The sound permeated her dreams as if through rolling waves of fog; undefined at first, and easy to ignore. Then it became loud, clamoring and insistent. She sat up in bed and clamped her hands over her ears.
“What is that noise?”
She thought it must be some time after dawn, for weak sunlight was already peeking through the shutters, but the sight of Hamish stretched out beside her did not bring the glow of deep domestic pleasure she had longed for.
She only wanted him to make the bell stop.
Or at least, to prove that he could hear it too and she wasn’t going mad.
He rolled onto his side to face her, his pale blue eyes sharp with understanding. “’Tis a warning bell. I have heard that sound often enough.” He was out of bed and reaching for his tunic in an instant.
Isabella was briefly distracted by his muscular torso. She frowned, trying to make sense of his words. “But Wolvesley cannot be under attack.”
Still, the prospect was disquieting enough for her to get out of bed and cover her white night rail with a thick robe that most likely belonged to Esme. Running footsteps sounded from behind the door and her alarm increased.
“We should go down.” Hamish hesitated. “But mayhap not together.”
Dimly, she grasped that he was protecting her reputation. “I shall go first.”
“Nay.” He caught at her elbow. “It might not be safe.”
“I am a daughter of this house.” She raised her eyebrows imperiously. “And anyway, you have no sword.”
“I have my fists,” he countered. But then the fight seemed to drain away from him and he sighed deeply. “I am sorry that I was not here for you in the way we both wanted last night.”
His handsome face was creased with regret and Isabella found herself softening. “I am more sorry that we have not e’en the early hours of this morn to be together.”
He ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders and gently touched her hair. “Perchance ’twas not meant to be, ye and I.”
“Don’t say that.” Her voice was forceful, even as her heart was breaking.
Shouts reverberated up the staircase. A man’s voice, loud and commanding, calling for Lord Tristan. Then Tristan’s reply and a waterfall of booted feet tramping down the stairs.
Isabella gathered her composure. “We should go. It sounds like the entire household is descending, but you may go ahead of me if you wish.”
She smiled to take the sting from her words, which she had meant kindly.
“Nay, ye have yer brother ahead of ye. I will stay at the back.”
He pulled on his cloak, his own cloak, which had been repaired and freshly laundered.
Isabella took a final moment to appreciate the beauty of him, from his russet curls to his broad shoulders and confident stance.
She had hoped for poignancy this morn, but ’twas hard to think of anything other than the clanging of the bell.
She rose up on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
Beyond her chamber door, she spied the last of a group of uniformed guards hurrying around a bend in the staircase.
The keep rang with noise, despite the earliness of the hour.
But although the air was fraught with a nervous excitement, she sensed no immediate threat.
She straightened her robe, briefly considered returning to her own chamber for something more suitable, then pressed on into the throng.
At the bottom of the stairs, she found a chattering huddle of men-at-arms and servants, none of whom paid her much attention.
The big double doors stood open to the outside, even though the November morn blew cold and damp.
Isabella was compelled to pass through the marbled entrance hall and out onto the terrace.
Here was the sense of threat.
She paused, one hand going to the neck of her robe. Now she wished Hamish had stayed by her side, so that she could hold his hand and take comfort from his touch.
The Wolvesley fountain shot foaming jets of water high into the bleak sky, just as it always had. But to the left of the fountain lay a crumpled figure in a scarlet cloak.
Even from this distance, it was unmistakably Lord Gaunt.
And he was unmistakably dead.
Blood pooled around him, the same color as his cloak. He gazed upwards, never to rake his eyes lasciviously over Isabella again.
She took a trembling breath.
Fully dressed and with his sword at his hip, Tristan strode over to the body. He crouched beside it and then nodded to the group of waiting men.
“Dead.”
His proclamation, unsurprising as it was, unleashed a torrent of emotion.
Isabella came to understand that the soldiers amassed around Tristan did not all serve Wolvesley.
Many wore the blood-red colors of Lord Gaunt.
And they were angry. She heard the scrape of swords being unsheathed, and before much time had passed, a line of Tristan’s men faced an equal line of men sworn to Gaunt.
With her brother at the center.
Isabella opened her mouth but no sound came out.
From the corner of her eye she saw her father, stately and tall, descending the steps to join his son.
She wanted to shout, to tell him to take care, but at that moment she was more an observer of the scene than a participant, and she could neither move nor speak.
Then Mirrie was at her side, with her arm about her shoulders, and Isabella could breathe again.
“Oh, Isabella,” her sister-in-law murmured.
Isabella clutched at the blue sleeve of Mirrie’s robe. “I am worried for Tristan.”
Mirrie said nothing, just held her tighter. Hamish was on the steps, above her father. Isabella wished he had his sword and could swell Tristan’s ranks.
Tristan was talking now, his voice too low for them to properly hear what he said. He took a step closer to the man who appeared to be the leader of Gaunt’s troops and stood unflinching even as that man pointed his sword directly at his chest.
“He did not put on his mail shirt,” Mirrie said in a strangled voice.
Tristan raised up his own sword, then slowly and deliberately sheathed it.
As one, the men behind him did the same.
Gaunt’s men still wielded their sharp swords, but the Wolvesley army were momentarily defenseless.
“What is he about?” Isabella half wanted to close her eyes. The chill wind tugged at her robe but anxiety made her almost feverishly warm.
“It is working.” Mirrie exhaled with relief as one-by-one, the men in scarlet put down their weapons.
Tristan gestured to his father and the two spoke quietly for a moment.
Angus raised his voice so that it carried through the courtyard. “I bid you all come inside for refreshment whilst my son investigates this matter.”
Gaunt’s men did not like this. They looked uncertainly at one another, but Tristan glowered at his own men who reluctantly began to lead the way back inside the keep. The red-cloaked leader threw back his head and said something to Tristan, who nodded solemnly.
“They are going in.” Isabella breathed deeply to quell a wave of dizziness.
“Aye.” Mirrie gave her a small smile. “I shall go and offer my help in the kitchen.”
Isabella stood uncertainly on the terrace. Should she follow Mirrie?
She looked for Hamish and saw him walking toward Tristan. With an impatient gesture, Tristan beckoned for her to do the same.
Isabella averted her eyes from the body of Lord Gaunt as she descended the steps. Spray from the fountain covered her face, making her blink and shiver. She dried her cheeks with her sleeve and met the angry gaze of her brother.
“Who could have done this?”
She recoiled in surprise. “I have no idea.”
Tristan’s piercing eyes moved to Hamish and something cold and heavy slid inside her belly.
“What about you? Do you have any idea?”
Isabella wanted to see shock and innocence writ large over Hamish’s face, but the highlander’s expression was unreadable.
“I canna say.”
“Cannot, or will not?” For a terrible moment, Tristan looked about to reach for his sword. “You have the most to gain from his death.” He nodded curtly toward the lifeless figure behind them.
Hamish stayed stonily silent, and Isabella felt the ground shift beneath her feet.
Did he do this?
“Can you vouch for his whereabouts?” Tristan demanded of her.
“I don’t know what you mean.” She clutched at the neck of her robe, playing for time.
“Do not be coy, Isabella. I am under no illusions about the two of you. I ask again. Can you vouch for him?”
Isabella gasped for air. She wanted to move closer to the fountain, to lean against the solid stone basin, but Gaunt’s body was in the way.
“Hamish, tell me, please, you didn’t do this, did you?”
Hamish shook his head, but then he spoke and shattered what small reassurance he had provided. “I didna kill him, but perchance I should have done.”
“Did he leave your side last night?” Tristan’s voice came out in a growl.
“Yes.” She wanted to deny it, but could not lie outright to her brother. “I’m sorry, Hamish.” She put her hands to her face as she began to sob.
“Ye are only speaking the truth, lass.” His voice was gentle.
Tristan dragged a hand through his shock of hair. “I have men inside ready to mutiny over this. They will string you up, man, if they sense your guilt, just as I have.”
Hamish stood still and silent. Isabella wanted to fall to her knees and beg for him to deny this terrible charge, but that would draw even more attention from the men-at-arms looking down at them. Time slowed down and she knew what Tristan was about to say, even before he opened his mouth.
“You must leave,” he told Hamish. “Take your horse from the stables and ride far away from here. Now.”
*
Hamish could not blame de Neville for believing him guilty; in his shoes, he would have done the same. When Hamish had looked down at Gaunt’s lifeless body, the question in his mind had not been ‘who did this?’, but ‘why didn’t I?’