She nodded. “I was going to find Jubal, the Captain of the watch and tell him. But my uncle yelled at me and I went to find Mama and forgot. A-a man, a-a beggar, I thought-tried to grab Iomedea’s reins from me about halfway along Parr Road, where it bends south. He looked at me, and I thought he looked familiar, but I couldn’t think of anyone… I hit him with my quirt and he jumped back behind the tall oak tree. I thought it was because I hit him, but, maybe it was because I wasn’t who he thought would come?”
“And once I asked about Alex Vinton you remembered who it was?”
Yseult flushed at the skeptical tone in his voice. “It was his eyes… That’s all that he couldn’t disguise. He was hunchbacked, dirty and had dreadlocks… Alex was always well dressed and clean and he taught us dance, and he was always very upright and picky about posture.”
Yseult leaned back against Romarec, suddenly very tired.
What an awful day! she thought and then had to control the hysterical giggles that threatened to set off the hiccups again at the utter banality of that.
Sir Garrick stood back up and ordered a manhunt along the path.
“Find that landmark and comb-fine-tooth comb-the entire area. We have to find him. Alive and able to talk if at all possible, but don’t let him escape even if you have to shoot.”
She pressed the burning cheekbone into the soft, cool cloth, wiping her face with a sigh.
“I guess that’s really bad? He must have come to talk to Mama?”
Garrick looked down at her. “I wonder just how much you know and don’t know?” he asked thoughtfully.
Yseult shuddered again and sipped more water. Breathe, she ordered herself. Sip. We are in so much trouble. I’d better not ask anything else.
The wrapped, now still body of Lady Mary was carried out, along with the three duffel bags; diligently searched by Sir Garrick before being sent on. Yseult kept an unexpected smile off her face as the much detested white on white altar cloth popped out of the third bag. Yseult heard a thump. Sir Garrick leaned out of the window and waved her over. Romarec helped her up and over to the window. Her mother lay in an oxcart, the duffels holding her in place.
“She’s off to Fen House, where she’ll stay until Lord Gervais returns. You’ll go to Todenangst, yourself. The Lady Regent summons you and your younger brother to await her pleasure. She told me to reassure you that Lady Mary will not be killed out of hand. Once Lord Odard is back she must stand trial for high treason and he must defend himself from the charges of accomplice… as must you and Huon.”
Yseult gulped. The cart moved forward and she gasped, the gulp turning awry and she choked and coughed and wheezed desperately. Lying on the cobbles, in a pool of blood was the hapless, headless body of her much disliked Uncle Guelf.
“Oh, poor Layella; lost her babe and now a widow,” exclaimed Romarec. She crossed herself and then grabbed Yseult as she swayed.
“Where’s his head?” asked Yseult.
Her voice sounded distant, beyond the heavy surf roaring in her ears. That makes three, spoke an unruly voice in the back of her mind.
“Taken to be displayed on the traitor’s wall at Todenangst.”
She decided that must have been Adolphus speaking, for Betancourt spoke right afterwards.
“Sit her down. Romarec, pack for the girl. Include a set of court clothes, but mostly what I told you for her mother. She will need an attendant in Todenangst; not you, who?”
Sparks danced before Yseult’s eyes and she concentrated on not throwing up. “Mistress Virgilia, the Lady Governess,” she heard. “Or the old nurse, Carmen Barrios. Her own maid is inexperienced.”
“Not the nurse. I remember her; she’s very old. Virgilia… Would that be Virgilia Santos? A collateral of Baron Jacinto Gutierrez?”
“Yes,” breathed Yseult.
“She’ll do. Where is she?”
Romarec patted Yseult on the shoulder. “I’ll bring her with the bags. Will you take Yseult away in a tumbrel as well?”
“No; she’ll ride. She has two horses, I believe. I’ll send them with her, and one of the undergrooms.”
“Goodwife,” said Yseult.
Romarec stopped and looked back, “Yes, little one?”
“If the captain allows, pack the books on my nightstand. There are several and they are my special favorites.”
Sir Garrick gave a quick nod and Yseult wondered why none of the other men had taken off their helmets or gauntlets. She caught his eye.
“What happens to my Aunt Layella, and her sister, poor Aunt Theresa, who was supposed to marry Uncle Jason? What will they do now? Can they stay at Loiston Manor? All the house of Gervais is gone or under arrest; we can’t protect them. Will you protect them? And where are Odo and Terry Reddings? And Sir Chezzy?”
Sir Garrick grimaced. “All good questions. I don’t have answers for every one. Sir Harold Czarnecki was wounded on September fifteenth during the retreat from Pendleton.”
She gasped and he frowned at her. “Yes, I suppose everybody will soon know. We broke our teeth on Pendleton. Boise and the CUT were there. With force much greater than we had expected. Czarnecki’s squire was killed in action. Young Odo Reddings was shipped out with Czarnecki and Terry’s body. They’re all at McKee Manor, as of this morning. And under guard. I am appointed steward for this land. My job is to determine how deep the rot has penetrated. Was it just your mother and uncle? Or are the rest of the adults in on it? We can’t risk them being Guelf’s agents or dupes.”
Yseult shuddered. Sad Aunt Theresa, who had lost the child her Uncle Jason had left her pregnant with when he was captured and murdered on a mission for Gervais, was unthinkable as an agent of evil; much less gentle Aunt Layella who had lost her babe just six weeks ago. And this man, the Regent’s agent, would have to question them hard and long. She shuddered again and blotted quick tears as a sudden thought obtruded…
Terry! Dead? How much more death will I see today?
The papers were sorted, docketed and bundled up, along with the charred fragments from the grate. Yseult could hear Sir Garrick’s men tramping through the castle, scaring the servants as they searched, their voices loud and echoing down the corridors. A few times she heard crashes.
Sir Garrick cursed under his breath and strode to the entranceway.
“This isn’t a sack! Have a care, there! Fulk, go see that they stay under control.”
Yseult felt a glassy calm descending on her, and a huge weariness. The housekeeper brought three packed duffel bags in for her and her fleece-lined cloak. She huddled Yseult into it as she whispered, “Courage, dear heart. I’ll be waiting to hear good news of you.”
For once Yseult didn’t care about the strictures on her conduct. With a sob she turned and hugged her, one armed.
“Take care, take care!” she whispered. “I will pray for you.”
“And I for you, chick.”
“Will you give your oath to stay with your escort and not try to escape?” asked Sir Garrick.
Yseult looked up at the knight with swimming eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “Parole. I will cast myself on the mercy of the Lady Regent. I swear by God the Father, God the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen.”
She crossed herself and hesitated as the armored man gestured to the door.
“But, please, can I take my Bernadette and my Immaculate Conception from the chapel? I-I was going to go there to pray this evening”-a short hysterical laugh escaped her-“but matters seem to have overtaken me! I promised.”
Sir Garrick sighed and nodded. “I’ll take you there. Let me first check your bags.” He pulled everything out, shook each piece and repacked the bags. Just as neatly as Goodwife Romarec had done in the first place, she noted. Yseult sighed with relief to see her Bible, her first book on St. Bernadette, Our Lady’s Little Servant, the Werfel novel, Song of Bernadette, and Trochu’s serious work on her as well as the collected writings of Bernadette edited by Laurentin.
At least I’ll have those, she thought, only briefly regretting the seven novels on her bookshelf.
“Everything is in order here. Let’s go to the chapel. I’ll have to check everything you wish to bring.”
He stood and turned to his men. “Ranulf, Digory, take four men-at-arms. Mount the girl on her own horse;
