A Knight's Pledge, page 6
Chapter 5
Effie left the house on the Strand with Lucan Montague after an early, silent breakfast, although she hadn’t been able to eat a bite. The cobbles in the wharf alley were damp with fog, and indeed the morning mist still blanketed the river valley, washing everything in soft light and filling the lanes with hush.
Lucan Montague had seemed loathe to converse since announcing to the family that morning that a message had arrived from the king, granting them audience. His continued silence suited her—she didn’t think her nerves could withstand trying to carry on a conversation, even if it would inevitably deteriorate into yet another argument which was likely to take her mind off their destination.
Effie was so nervous, so anxious, she felt she might jump out of the borrowed gown she wore. It was bulky and cumbersome, too long at the hem, an unpleasing color, and rather than increase her confidence at being appropriately attired, the wearing of the gown only added to her unease. This was not who she was, London was not her home; the people she would meet and speak with today were not her friends. But she would do whatever was necessary to regain her son. She held the image of George’s little face in her mind as she gripped the reins with white-knuckled fingers and rode through the already busy street at Lucan’s side.
He wore the red velvet tunic again, and used as she was to seeing him in nothing but black, it was as if a stranger accompanied her. Just as well. He had given her little insight beyond the few cautions of manners and expectations for speaking to Henry, as if she were some rough commoner. Although, to be fair, she suspected neither of them had any real idea what they would encounter once they arrived.
She took a deep, slow, silent breath as the full vista of the Westminster complex rose before her. It was more than magnificent, and although Effie thought she would look upon the myriad of royal structures with dread, she marveled at its beauty as they passed through the opening.
The crunch of hoof on gravel echoed within the low stone walls and then rolled up the tall facing of the massive building. The courtyard was immaculate if stark in its winter landscape, more like an illustration with its dull tones of masonry and gravel and bare branches to welcome them. The pools were all but empty, no fountain bubbled, no flowers bloomed, and yet every crisp line, every bare bed emphasized the royalty of the place.
A pair of footmen or guards—Effie wasn’t certain, as every man she saw appeared to be armed—came to take charge of their mounts once they reached the pointed stone archway framing the doors, and Effie was annoyed at having to wait for assistance to dismount in her awkward attire. She and Lucan were admitted into the dark hush of the hall.
She tried to steel herself against the grandeur of the interior, but it was of no use. The ceiling soared up from tall stone walls, swirling into carved oaken beams that met in the peak what must have been nearly a hundred feet above Effie’s head. The floor, too, was massive, with its wide, square slabs of stone. But even as she gasped at the hall, her hand went to her mouth. For there at the far end of the cavernous chamber, on those great slabs of stone before the steps and the king’s dais, a trio of children played. The door behind Effie shut with a thud and a gust of hooting wind, and one of the little faces raised, staring down the wide center aisle.
“Mama?” The single, quiet word was like a chorus within the stone walls and floor, echoing, spinning joyfully in the air.
“George Thomas,” Effie breathed, and was running at once, nearly tripping on her skirts before she remembered to hold them aloft. “George!”
He got to his feet and met her, Effie going to her knees as her son flew into her arms.
“Mama, what took you so long?” George demanded. “Is it because you are wearing a gown?”
“I came as fast as I could, my love.” Effie squeezed him and then held him away from her to scrutinize him. “Are you well? Have you been treated well?”
“Oh, yes, Mama,” George said. “I have my own chamber and a nursie who is ever so good. I have lots of playmates and there are lessons. And Grandmamma visits me nearly every day.”
Effie felt as if someone wrapped a hand around her throat. “Grandmamma?”
George nodded, his rosy cheeks and his red hair just as vibrant as they had been in the wood, perhaps even more so, Effie thought, as his skin seemed to have paled. “Grandmamma Hargrave. She and Lady Paget brought me to see the king. That’s him, right there.” George half turned and pointed behind him at the man Effie only now noticed was sitting on the dais behind the center of a long table.
Sitting on a throne.
Footsteps sounded near her, and Effie looked up as Lucan Montague reached her and George. His blue eyes were icy, his thoughts unreadable. But his attention was for George alone.
“Good day, George. Do you remember me at all?”
“Good day. Yes, I do, sir. You are Lucan Montague. Mama shot you in your foot. Is it all better?”
The man’s thin lips quirked. “It is. Thank you for asking.”
“You are quite welcome. I am ever so glad that you have brought my mama to me. Have you met the king? His name is Henry, but I am to call him ‘my lord’ whenever anyone else is about.”
“I have met the king,” Lucan said. “In fact, I am here to see him myself.”
“That is very good, Sir Lucan,” George said sincerely. “It’s ever so nice that you can be here with Mama and Grandmamma Hargrave and Uncle Padraig.”
Effie shook George’s hand to draw his attention to her. “Uncle Padraig is here?”
“Oh, yes, Mama. And not only him, but Auntie Iris, and Tavish and Lohock…Lock—” the boy struggled. “It’s quite hard to say it the way he does.”
“Do you mean Lachlan, George?” Lucan offered. His face seemed rather more pale than usual, and Effie wondered if something was amiss she was as yet unaware of, or if the interior of Westminster naturally sapped the life from its inhabitants.
“Yes, sir.” George looked back to Effie. “Did Father come, too?”
“Shh,” Effie said, drawing her son into another embrace. “He is not far away, my love. On that you can depend. And you shall see him very soon.”
“Effie,” Lucan said quietly. And then he turned and walked toward the dais alone.
The other two children George had been playing with upon Effie’s arrival had vanished sometime during her reunion with her son, leaving the hall empty save for the king and a single servant.
“Oh, yes,” George Thomas piped enthusiastically. “Let’s do go with him, Mama. I just know you and my lord will be great friends.”
Effie swallowed and tried to force a smile while George pulled her to her feet with both hands. Perhaps she would have succeeded, her relief was so great at finally getting to look into his sweet face again. But just as they started forward toward where Lucan had gone to one knee, the single, round-topped door to the left of the table opened, and a ghost entered the hall.
* * * *
“Your Grace.” Lucan knelt and bowed his head before King Henry.
“Ah, Sir Lucan. So glad you at last decided to attend me—Ulric arrived what must be three weeks ago now,” he chastised, but his tone was not unkind.
“Forgive me, lord,” Lucan replied. “I was yet recovering at Steadport Hall, and”—his words were cut off as he rose and the door to the left of where Henry sat opened. An old woman shuffled into the hall.
Her face was deeply lined now, the skin around her eyes drooped. Her lips were colorless and drawn like the neck of a purse, and her gown sagged around her shoulders as she leaned heavily on the arm of her tall, skeletal companion. Bright streaks of white gleamed where before none had lived in her once glossy-brown hair. Lucan felt a sizzle of disbelief race up his spine, and it paralyzed him for an instant.
By God—it was Caris Hargrave, returned from a fiery grave.
Or hell.
Behind Lucan, George Thomas’s voice called out, “Grandmamma! You were right—look who has come!” The boy then dashed past toward where Caris Hargrave had swayed to a halt next to Vivienne Paget.
“George, no!” Effie shouted sharply.
The boy stopped as if pulled up short on a leash and he turned around with a bewildered look on his face.
“Come to me at once,” Effie demanded, the command breathy.
“But, Mama—”
“At once, George Thomas!”
Lucan did not turn as the boy walked obediently back in the direction from which he’d come—he couldn’t seem to drag his gaze from the terrible sight of what Caris Hargrave had become.
“It’s alright, George,” the wraith rasped, and it reminded Lucan of fine gravel sliding over sandstone. Her smile was small, as if the bones of her face were frozen. She looked past Lucan with those frightening, wilting eyes. “Hello, Euphemia.”
Effie stepped to Lucan’s right and sank into a deep curtsey, her face nearly touching the stones. “My king.” She stayed there and the moments dragged past. No one in the hall moved, save George Thomas, who shifted slightly from foot to foot, as Henry took his time to welcome the newcomer to his court.
“Euphemia Hargrave, I presume,” he said at last.
Effie rose, graceful in a way Lucan couldn’t imagine after being folded in half in such a fashion for so long.
But it was her son who replied, “This is my mama, Hen—my lord.”
“I took the name Effie Annesley many years ago, Your Grace,” she said.
“A rather questionable decision, wouldn’t you now say?” the monarch queried.
Effie lifted her chin. “Forgive me for disagreeing with you so soon upon our first meeting, lord, but no. I’m proud to bear the name Annesley.”
“Is that so?” Henry seemed surprised. “There may be something to hear, after all. We shall soon see.”
A servant had come in after the old women and placed two chairs on the floor before the left side of the dais. Vivienne Paget helped Caris to sit and then took the other seat herself.
Another servant appeared with a chair that he placed on the opposite side of the aisle as the king looked back to Lucan. “I’ll get to you in a moment, Sir Lucan.”
Lucan bowed and went to the chair, leaving Effie and George Thomas standing alone, juxtaposed between the other inhabitants of the room. The servants left quietly through the door behind the table.
“Why have you come to my court, Euphemia Hargrave?” Henry asked, and Lucan couldn’t help but wonder if the king was purposefully goading Effie with the hated moniker.
“My son was abducted from the wood beyond our home. I found a letter penned by Lady Paget that informed me that George Thomas had been brought to London. I’ve come to retrieve him.”
“You don’t seem surprised to see Lady Caris,” he led. “You must have believed her dead, if the accounts I received of the fire at Darlyrede House are to be believed.”
“Evil is difficult to kill, my lord. The devil himself likely ejected her.”
Henry raised his eyebrows, and the corners of his mouth drew down. “Hmm. Harsh words from a woman who was herself raised in luxury at Darlyrede.” His gaze went suddenly to the boy, holding on to his mother’s hand. “George.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Where did you tell me you lived again?”
“The Warren, lord.”
“Ah, yes.” Henry nodded, as if just then recalling the detail. “And what exactly is the Warren?”
“It’s a giant cave, lord.”
“I see. Have you always lived at the Warren?”
“Yes, lord.”
Now Henry looked to Caris Hargrave, who was pressing a kerchief to mouth. “Lady Caris, did you abduct this child from a cave?”
The kerchief came down and a reedy breath of air whistled in through the stingy lips. “No, Your Grace. I assure you I was in no condition to abduct anyone. I had just crawled from the rubble of Darlyrede. Dazed. Bleeding. My hands burnt from the heat of the stones—look, the wounds yet heal. Darlyrede was deserted. I thought I would die at any moment.” She gasped a pair of breaths. “One of the horses had been overlooked. Not saddled, but with a bridle.” Another gasp. “I managed to hold to it. It took me into the woods where George Thomas, my angel, found me.”
“He had sneaked away from his dinner to follow me, Your Grace,” Effie interjected. “He’s always—”
Henry held up a palm, silencing Effie. He looked back to Caris. “You did not force him to go with you.”
“He could have easily run away,” Caris whispered. “Instead, he led the horse to a place where he could help me mount. I wasn’t very steady. I did however ask him to come with me to Elsmire Tower, where lived my only friend in the world, lest I fainted along the way. I promised him a goodly coin if he would help me.”
“Is this true, George?” Effie asked.
“Yes, Mama. You and Father always told me that is our duty to help people who need help. She was ever so ill.”
“I intended to send him home right away,” Caris continued. “I’d no idea who he was. It wasn’t until I asked him where his parents were that I realized that I was holding”—she broke off, pressed the kerchief to her lips again briefly—“I was holding my own flesh and blood, abandoned in that dangerous, snowy wood.”
“He wasn’t abandoned,” Effie shot back.
“When I understood he was Euphemia’s child, and then heard of the animal den in which he was being forced to live, I knew that I had no choice but to bring him to you, lord. To throw us all upon your mercy.” She looked back to Effie and, perhaps to an outsider, Caris Hargrave’s expression could have been construed as pleading sorrow, but Lucan saw the cunning there, hiding in the wrinkles, shimmering in the white streaks of hair, like a malevolent phantasm.
“It’s time we told the truth, Euphemia. To the king and to each other.”
“What are you talking about?” Effie demanded. “Nothing resembling the truth has ever passed your lips.”
The king pulled a rope on the wall behind him, and the door opened at once, admitting a servant.
“Bring in the others,” Henry commanded.
The servant stepped aside, and Iris Montague appeared, looking serious and wary. Lucan’s sister was followed by her husband, Padraig Boyd, who, while not at all as decrepit as Caris Hargrave, seemed also to have aged a decade since last Lucan had seen him. Then Tavish Cameron and Lachlan Blair appeared followed by two women—a blonde and a redhead—both of whom Lucan recognized.
Each of them met Lucan’s eyes.
Once they were all standing nearby, the king looked to the old woman again. “Proceed, Lady Caris.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She gasped a pair of breaths and then swung her gaze to Effie. “Euphemia. Your suspicions all those years ago were correct. You are in fact my granddaughter, the child of Cordelia Hargrave and Thomas Annesley.” No one in the room seemed surprised by this confession, and Lucan wondered at the information that had already been passed before his arrival.
“I tried to protect you from it, but I can see now how wrong of me it was to do so.”
“Did you cut me from my mother’s womb?” Effie demanded.
The atmosphere in the hall tingled with anticipation.
“I did,” Caris allowed crisply.
* * * *
Effie felt the room tilt ever so slightly at this admission. The hall was as silent as a tomb.
At last. At last.
“I did it to save your life,” Caris continued in her raspy whisper. “Had I not done, you would have died along with your poor mother, who was dead even as you emerged.”
Effie was glad she hadn’t eaten anything that morning, else it would have ended up on the stone floor in that moment.
“You killed her,” she managed to choke out. “Your own daughter.”
The king interjected. “You make a very serious allegation for one who was not cognizant of the goings-on at the time, Euphemia. Thomas Annesley has been well known as the perpetrator of your mother’s murder. He’s been convicted of it.”
Effie’s gaze flicked to the right of Henry, where her brother Padraig had moved to stay his wife. His face was grim and the warning for Iris on his face was clear: Hold your tongue.
Why?
“Lady Caris seems to wish nothing more than to rescue your son from certain poverty,” Henry continued. “Poverty, and perhaps a future filled with lawlessness that could only end in his destruction.”
“My lord,” Effie began.
“Have you been in contact with Thomas Annesley?”
“No, Your Grace,” Effie managed to answer. “To my knowledge, I’ve never met him.”
“That sounds very much like a half-truth to me, Euphemia,” the king chastised, but went on. “Is it true that it was you and your band of thieves who started the fire at Darlyrede House, which resulted in the deaths of Lord Vaughn Hargrave as well as several servants?”
Effie’s breath caught in her throat. “No, my lord! We had no intention of—”
“Did you shoot and kill Lord Adolphus Paget in the wood the day prior to the fire?”
Effie’s blood turned to ice—was this a trial? “I…I cannot say, my lord.”
“You cannot say? Was it you who shot Lucan Montague, my own knight, on that same occasion?”
Effie’s eyes reflexively flicked to Lucan. His normally serious expression was grave, and it gave her no comfort. She looked back to the king.
“It was, my lord.”
“Hmm. So we have a confession, at last. Good.”
The situation was spiraling out of all semblance of reason or control and Effie felt unable to draw sufficient breath.
“We shall deal with those charges at a future time,” the king continued calmly. “I assume Sir Lucan will be more than happy to cooperate with your prosecution. But the matter at hand is more pressing, and that is the apprehension of the fugitive, Thomas Annesley.” He looked to Lucan. “I would now address you both.”
