Dust flew, and she coughed. “The servants haven’t been caring for this place, and with you here, they’ll be forced to.” She wiped a finger across the glass of the window and glared at the streak it left. “Lazy sluts.”
Griffith said, “Wenthaven wouldn’t want me to destroy the sanctity of a shrine he has kept so carefully.”
“As you wish,” she answered. “But wherever you go in this keep, beware of drapes that seem to cut the breeze, and tiny alcoves and passages that lead nowhere. They often hide the unseen listener.”
He winced.
“I thought you wanted to be able to freely speak to Art. To know no peering eyes watch you dress, or snigger at the holes in your hose. To piss without embarrassment—”
“M’lady,” Art chimed in, “the watchers would but envy him.”
“Shut up, Art,” Griffith snapped. “That is scarcely the point.”
Marian insisted, “That’s all the point. There’s no place in this castle where Wenthaven’s spies cannot go—except here.”
Griffith was a man used to solitude. To the open length of a Welsh seashore and the hushed call of a woodland owl. Living here at Wenthaven Castle for an indefinite time would be strain enough. But never knowing when someone eavesdropped on him…
From the doorway, Art asked, “So are we staying?”
“Wenthaven will toss us out when he discovers our impertinence,” Griffith insisted.
But he was wavering, and Marian knew it. She smiled that lopsided smile again. “He won’t mind.”
Art stepped in and dropped the bags. The thick carpet swallowed the thud, and he wiped his palms on his jerkin. “What happened to her?”
“The countess?” Marian’s gaze shifted away toward the window. “Eighteen years ago she fell down the stairs and broke her neck. That’s why this room is safe for you. Wenthaven never comes here. I’m told she was the only thing he ever cared about.”
“So we trade the nosiness of Wenthaven for the constant presence of his wife.”
Art’s whisper chilled Griffith.
Marian moved close to the old man, seeming unsurprised by his claim of a haunting. She laid a hand on his arm. “Is she really here? Some of the servants claim she is. They say the room’s too cold and the air’s unfriendly, but I’ve never felt that.”
Art patted her hand. “Of course not. She didn’t die unshriven, did she?”
“Nay. She still lived when they found her, and the priest gave her last rites. Then they tried to move her.…” Marian dropped her hands in a final gesture.
“So she’s not a cruel ghost,” Art said, “but a gentle shade whose work on this earth was left unfinished. She’ll have no patience with idle maids or lusty knaves. But she likes ye, Lady Marian. Aye, she likes ye.”
Delighted, Marian smiled at Art, and Griffith found himself even more annoyed by the friendship springing up between his manservant and his…and Lady Marian. “Arthur,” he snapped, “you’ve never claimed to be a sensitive before.”
“Do ye think ye know everything about me?” Art snapped back. “Ye young runt, ye.”
Marian tossed back her head and laughed aloud. This time the change was tangible. The room brightened, and Griffith looked for an explanation. There, outside the east window, the sun flung its earliest glow. Dawn wouldn’t be for another two hours, but Marian saw it, too, and said, “I have to go. I’ve been gone too long as it is.” In a hurry now, she strode to the door. “I’ll get the servants up here as soon as the cock crows. And I’ll clear it with—”
“I’m going with you,” Griffith said.
“What?” She paused. “Where?”
“To see you to your room. ’Tis not safe for a young woman, dressed as you are, to wander about.” He tried hard to keep the censorious tone from his voice, but apparently he had ill succeeded.
“It’s safe for me,” she retorted.
“Nevertheless, I will go with you.” And when she opened her mouth again, he added, “Or you’ll stay here
Griffith said, “Wenthaven wouldn’t want me to destroy the sanctity of a shrine he has kept so carefully.”
“As you wish,” she answered. “But wherever you go in this keep, beware of drapes that seem to cut the breeze, and tiny alcoves and passages that lead nowhere. They often hide the unseen listener.”
He winced.
“I thought you wanted to be able to freely speak to Art. To know no peering eyes watch you dress, or snigger at the holes in your hose. To piss without embarrassment—”
“M’lady,” Art chimed in, “the watchers would but envy him.”
“Shut up, Art,” Griffith snapped. “That is scarcely the point.”
Marian insisted, “That’s all the point. There’s no place in this castle where Wenthaven’s spies cannot go—except here.”
Griffith was a man used to solitude. To the open length of a Welsh seashore and the hushed call of a woodland owl. Living here at Wenthaven Castle for an indefinite time would be strain enough. But never knowing when someone eavesdropped on him…
From the doorway, Art asked, “So are we staying?”
“Wenthaven will toss us out when he discovers our impertinence,” Griffith insisted.
But he was wavering, and Marian knew it. She smiled that lopsided smile again. “He won’t mind.”
Art stepped in and dropped the bags. The thick carpet swallowed the thud, and he wiped his palms on his jerkin. “What happened to her?”
“The countess?” Marian’s gaze shifted away toward the window. “Eighteen years ago she fell down the stairs and broke her neck. That’s why this room is safe for you. Wenthaven never comes here. I’m told she was the only thing he ever cared about.”
“So we trade the nosiness of Wenthaven for the constant presence of his wife.”
Art’s whisper chilled Griffith.
Marian moved close to the old man, seeming unsurprised by his claim of a haunting. She laid a hand on his arm. “Is she really here? Some of the servants claim she is. They say the room’s too cold and the air’s unfriendly, but I’ve never felt that.”
Art patted her hand. “Of course not. She didn’t die unshriven, did she?”
“Nay. She still lived when they found her, and the priest gave her last rites. Then they tried to move her.…” Marian dropped her hands in a final gesture.
“So she’s not a cruel ghost,” Art said, “but a gentle shade whose work on this earth was left unfinished. She’ll have no patience with idle maids or lusty knaves. But she likes ye, Lady Marian. Aye, she likes ye.”
Delighted, Marian smiled at Art, and Griffith found himself even more annoyed by the friendship springing up between his manservant and his…and Lady Marian. “Arthur,” he snapped, “you’ve never claimed to be a sensitive before.”
“Do ye think ye know everything about me?” Art snapped back. “Ye young runt, ye.”
Marian tossed back her head and laughed aloud. This time the change was tangible. The room brightened, and Griffith looked for an explanation. There, outside the east window, the sun flung its earliest glow. Dawn wouldn’t be for another two hours, but Marian saw it, too, and said, “I have to go. I’ve been gone too long as it is.” In a hurry now, she strode to the door. “I’ll get the servants up here as soon as the cock crows. And I’ll clear it with—”
“I’m going with you,” Griffith said.
“What?” She paused. “Where?”
“To see you to your room. ’Tis not safe for a young woman, dressed as you are, to wander about.” He tried hard to keep the censorious tone from his voice, but apparently he had ill succeeded.
“It’s safe for me,” she retorted.
“Nevertheless, I will go with you.” And when she opened her mouth again, he added, “Or you’ll stay here
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