Berengar’s Tower.
He began to feel foolish. Constance was in heaven, and her pure soul had no cause to haunt this place. The apparition must have been in hismind. He sheathed his sword with a sigh of relief. He’d been listening to Ralph too long if he was even considering that he saw Rowena. He groaned aloud and left the chamber, heading for his own. Why would he have a vision of a poor girl dead some two centuries? Then a more sinister thought occurred to him. What if that shimmering glow he’d seen the other night on the path hadn’t been light from the castle? That meant either he was seeing spirits, or he was going mad, or both. Mayhap the strain of the Tower vision had affected his reason. Then there was another possibility; these ghostly sightings of his could be part of another vision. His hands were shaking, and he broke into a cold sweat.
If this was another vision, he would go mad. He’d had enough. He could stand no more of them. He didn’t want to see murdered children, bloody battlefields, or dead women.
Halfway up the stairs to his chamber he stopped, put the torch in a sconce, and leaned against the wall. Holy Trinity! Deliver him from this foul curse! He was weary of these visions that plagued him awake and in his sleep. It had cost him much, more than he wanted to remember. He slumped to the floor, his sword between his knees, and cooled his burning forehead in his palms, trying to banish the mistaken image of Constance from his mind.
Once he’d been young, happy and confident, able to stand against all that the world might hurlat him. He’d had a wife and two children, a girl and a boy. He’d been fond of his beautiful wife. If he hadn’t loved her, neither of them knew it, for their parents had matched them young, and there had been no chance to miss love. Constance had been thirteen, and he’d been two years older when they married. The births of Gisela and Oliver had drawn them together, and they had worked as partners. Constance governed the children and his home, Argent.
Gisela loved horses, and Galen had feared for her safety since she was three and insisted on riding a pony. At nine years of age she rode a horse as fearlessly as he had at fifteen. Six-year-old Oliver preferred his gentle pony and kept the whole castle laughing with his jests and pranks.
On a cold day in February Galen had a vision of danger that threatened a friend and rode out in all haste to warn him. The journey took three days, and he returned to find that a Yorkist rival, Baron Roger Scrope, had attacked Argent while the gates were open and the drawbridge down to receive shipments of goods from London. Scrope, who coveted Argent and its rich fields and forests, had been as lawless and evil as old Berengar, but Galen had always beaten him in the few open fights they’d had. Now the castle was in flames. Scrope had cornered Constance, Gisela, and Oliver in the solar and skewered each with his own sword.
Near mad with grief and rage, Galen hadtracked Roger Scrope down, in the hunting lodge where he’d gone to weather the storm of outrage that had resulted from his raid. Galen and his men surrounded the lodge, allowed Scrope’s servants to go free, and set fire to the place. When Scrope and his knights fled, a hail of arrows from longbows rained down on them. Galen found Scrope hiding in the stables, forced him into the kitchen yard, and attacked. Scrope’s venality was no match for Galen’s cold rage. He ended up begging piteously for his life. At least, Galen assumed that was what he was crying as he ran his sword through Scrope’s throat and pinned him to the ground. Galen watched him die, feeling nothing, and wishing that he could die too.
In the stairwell of Berengar’s Tower Galen made a strangled sound in his throat and fought back tears. That had been seven years ago. The pain would never go away, and neither would the knowledge that if had he not left to follow one of his visions, Constance,
He began to feel foolish. Constance was in heaven, and her pure soul had no cause to haunt this place. The apparition must have been in hismind. He sheathed his sword with a sigh of relief. He’d been listening to Ralph too long if he was even considering that he saw Rowena. He groaned aloud and left the chamber, heading for his own. Why would he have a vision of a poor girl dead some two centuries? Then a more sinister thought occurred to him. What if that shimmering glow he’d seen the other night on the path hadn’t been light from the castle? That meant either he was seeing spirits, or he was going mad, or both. Mayhap the strain of the Tower vision had affected his reason. Then there was another possibility; these ghostly sightings of his could be part of another vision. His hands were shaking, and he broke into a cold sweat.
If this was another vision, he would go mad. He’d had enough. He could stand no more of them. He didn’t want to see murdered children, bloody battlefields, or dead women.
Halfway up the stairs to his chamber he stopped, put the torch in a sconce, and leaned against the wall. Holy Trinity! Deliver him from this foul curse! He was weary of these visions that plagued him awake and in his sleep. It had cost him much, more than he wanted to remember. He slumped to the floor, his sword between his knees, and cooled his burning forehead in his palms, trying to banish the mistaken image of Constance from his mind.
Once he’d been young, happy and confident, able to stand against all that the world might hurlat him. He’d had a wife and two children, a girl and a boy. He’d been fond of his beautiful wife. If he hadn’t loved her, neither of them knew it, for their parents had matched them young, and there had been no chance to miss love. Constance had been thirteen, and he’d been two years older when they married. The births of Gisela and Oliver had drawn them together, and they had worked as partners. Constance governed the children and his home, Argent.
Gisela loved horses, and Galen had feared for her safety since she was three and insisted on riding a pony. At nine years of age she rode a horse as fearlessly as he had at fifteen. Six-year-old Oliver preferred his gentle pony and kept the whole castle laughing with his jests and pranks.
On a cold day in February Galen had a vision of danger that threatened a friend and rode out in all haste to warn him. The journey took three days, and he returned to find that a Yorkist rival, Baron Roger Scrope, had attacked Argent while the gates were open and the drawbridge down to receive shipments of goods from London. Scrope, who coveted Argent and its rich fields and forests, had been as lawless and evil as old Berengar, but Galen had always beaten him in the few open fights they’d had. Now the castle was in flames. Scrope had cornered Constance, Gisela, and Oliver in the solar and skewered each with his own sword.
Near mad with grief and rage, Galen hadtracked Roger Scrope down, in the hunting lodge where he’d gone to weather the storm of outrage that had resulted from his raid. Galen and his men surrounded the lodge, allowed Scrope’s servants to go free, and set fire to the place. When Scrope and his knights fled, a hail of arrows from longbows rained down on them. Galen found Scrope hiding in the stables, forced him into the kitchen yard, and attacked. Scrope’s venality was no match for Galen’s cold rage. He ended up begging piteously for his life. At least, Galen assumed that was what he was crying as he ran his sword through Scrope’s throat and pinned him to the ground. Galen watched him die, feeling nothing, and wishing that he could die too.
In the stairwell of Berengar’s Tower Galen made a strangled sound in his throat and fought back tears. That had been seven years ago. The pain would never go away, and neither would the knowledge that if had he not left to follow one of his visions, Constance,
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