Gisela, and Oliver would still be alive.
He wasn’t going to sleep tonight. Galen picked up the torch and wandered aimlessly around the keep. Eventually he ended up back in Rowena’s chamber. He slumped on the bench and looked out the window at the expanse of bare rock that was Berengar’s Tower. Tired of holding the torch, he propped it in a sconce. Then he turned around, leaned against the scarred window embrasure andstared at the floor, wretched. His boot slid over the floorboards as he leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees and closed his eyes. They opened again, and he bent down. Abruptly he picked up the torch and held it close to the floor.
In the dust left from centuries of neglect he saw what he should not have been able to see—footprints. Someone had been here. Someone real. Galen walked around the trail of prints, studying them. A real person had been in this chamber. Who?
He knelt down and studied the imprints. They were small, light footprints. Had mischievous children played a prank on him? Galen rubbed his chin, then narrowed his eyes. These weren’t children’s footprints. They were the prints of a woman’s slipper.
And drops of candle wax. That’s what his boot had slid over so easily. Dried wax. Ghosts didn’t leave footprints, nor did they need candles.
Galen touched the bits of wax, then straightened and contemplated the footprints. Children wouldn’t come to Durance Guarde at night. Few dared to come near it at any time. In truth, there was only one person he’d encountered since he’d been here who might dare to go into Rowena’s Tower at night. Only one who wore a small slipper. Only one who might be crazed enough to pose as a ghost.
Lady Honor the shrew, by God’s mercy.
Fury burst upon him as he realized how he’d been made to play the fool. His emotions had zigzagged madly, like the flight of a butterfly, and he’d been devastated by ugly memories, all on account of that spoiled termagant. Shaking with the effort to contain his anger, Galen rose, and glared at the footprints.
“God save you, Lady Honor Jennings. For you’re going to need Him.”
F IVE
H er face plastered with a sickly white paint, Honor crept onto the landing outside Rowena’s chamber and pushed open the door. She clutched a bundle that contained her wig and spare jar of alabaster paste. Jacoba stood nearby holding a small candle. Wilfred and Theodoric followed Honor inside bearing larger parcels.
Wilfred pulled tall, fat candles and two torches from his bundle, while Jacoba produced a piece of dark wool fabric, a length of white cobweb lawn, and two short wooden wands. Theodoric set his bundle down with a
clank
, which made the others jump.
“God save us!” Honor hissed. “I told you to be careful.”
“Sorry, me lady,” Theodoric said. He pulled alength of chain and a small copper cooking pot from his bundle and left to continue upstairs to the roof.
Holding the dark fabric, Wilfred jumped onto the stone bench below the window and held it across the window. His hands shook, and he muttered prayers while Jacoba inspected Honor’s face paint.
“It’s still good, lady.”
“Then light the candles and torches.”
Honor threw off her cloak to reveal an old-fashioned gown of thin, white wool. It was long and full-skirted, with wide sleeves that revealed tight undersleeves. She wore a silver girdle low on her hips. Jacoba brought her the horsehair wig, one she’d had made and dyed in secret at Castle Stafford. The hem and long oversleeves of the gown had been cut in slits so that when Honor moved the ragged edges trailed and floated.
Donning the wig, Honor climbed up beside Wilfred on the bench. After Jacoba lit the remaining candles that had been placed on either side of the bench, she lighted the torches and picked up the cobweb lawn. She had tied the corners of the lawn to the two wands, and handed one to Wilfred, who was still holding the dark screen over the
He wasn’t going to sleep tonight. Galen picked up the torch and wandered aimlessly around the keep. Eventually he ended up back in Rowena’s chamber. He slumped on the bench and looked out the window at the expanse of bare rock that was Berengar’s Tower. Tired of holding the torch, he propped it in a sconce. Then he turned around, leaned against the scarred window embrasure andstared at the floor, wretched. His boot slid over the floorboards as he leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees and closed his eyes. They opened again, and he bent down. Abruptly he picked up the torch and held it close to the floor.
In the dust left from centuries of neglect he saw what he should not have been able to see—footprints. Someone had been here. Someone real. Galen walked around the trail of prints, studying them. A real person had been in this chamber. Who?
He knelt down and studied the imprints. They were small, light footprints. Had mischievous children played a prank on him? Galen rubbed his chin, then narrowed his eyes. These weren’t children’s footprints. They were the prints of a woman’s slipper.
And drops of candle wax. That’s what his boot had slid over so easily. Dried wax. Ghosts didn’t leave footprints, nor did they need candles.
Galen touched the bits of wax, then straightened and contemplated the footprints. Children wouldn’t come to Durance Guarde at night. Few dared to come near it at any time. In truth, there was only one person he’d encountered since he’d been here who might dare to go into Rowena’s Tower at night. Only one who wore a small slipper. Only one who might be crazed enough to pose as a ghost.
Lady Honor the shrew, by God’s mercy.
Fury burst upon him as he realized how he’d been made to play the fool. His emotions had zigzagged madly, like the flight of a butterfly, and he’d been devastated by ugly memories, all on account of that spoiled termagant. Shaking with the effort to contain his anger, Galen rose, and glared at the footprints.
“God save you, Lady Honor Jennings. For you’re going to need Him.”
F IVE
H er face plastered with a sickly white paint, Honor crept onto the landing outside Rowena’s chamber and pushed open the door. She clutched a bundle that contained her wig and spare jar of alabaster paste. Jacoba stood nearby holding a small candle. Wilfred and Theodoric followed Honor inside bearing larger parcels.
Wilfred pulled tall, fat candles and two torches from his bundle, while Jacoba produced a piece of dark wool fabric, a length of white cobweb lawn, and two short wooden wands. Theodoric set his bundle down with a
clank
, which made the others jump.
“God save us!” Honor hissed. “I told you to be careful.”
“Sorry, me lady,” Theodoric said. He pulled alength of chain and a small copper cooking pot from his bundle and left to continue upstairs to the roof.
Holding the dark fabric, Wilfred jumped onto the stone bench below the window and held it across the window. His hands shook, and he muttered prayers while Jacoba inspected Honor’s face paint.
“It’s still good, lady.”
“Then light the candles and torches.”
Honor threw off her cloak to reveal an old-fashioned gown of thin, white wool. It was long and full-skirted, with wide sleeves that revealed tight undersleeves. She wore a silver girdle low on her hips. Jacoba brought her the horsehair wig, one she’d had made and dyed in secret at Castle Stafford. The hem and long oversleeves of the gown had been cut in slits so that when Honor moved the ragged edges trailed and floated.
Donning the wig, Honor climbed up beside Wilfred on the bench. After Jacoba lit the remaining candles that had been placed on either side of the bench, she lighted the torches and picked up the cobweb lawn. She had tied the corners of the lawn to the two wands, and handed one to Wilfred, who was still holding the dark screen over the
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