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But it did not. Lord Garron rose to stand over his dead enemy. He was unharmed.
All believe it a miracle.
Robert Burnell studied what he had written. Had it really happened thusly? For perhaps the hundredth time now since this amazing occurrence had come to pass nearly a week before, he saw that wild white bolt of lightning explode Jason of Brennan’s sword tip, melded, it had seemed, to Garron’s sword, yet Garron had walked away unscathed, save for a single cut delivered by Jason of Brennan to his arm. Had it truly been a miracle? he wondered. Had God truly directed lightning itself, hurled it at Jason of Brennan?
It was not for him to judge such matters, merely present them to His Holiness, ordained by God himself to rule upon its merits. He rose from his high-backed chair, wiped the excess ink from his fingers, and carried the letter to the king.
His step lagged a bit, for he also had unfortunate news for his majesty. Helen, Abbess of Meizerling, and her daughter, whose name no one knew, had escaped from the tower dungeons early that morning, and no one had wanted to be the messenger to the king. No one could understand how she did it, since no one, absolutely no one, could have escaped the tower dungeons without bribing more than a dozen guards. How had the witch managed to
do this? The guards all swore they were loyal, and, Burnell had to admit, their shock and fear of the witch’s escape appeared quite genuine. And there was the question—had the witch somehow managed to cast a spell on all the guards? At the same time?
She and her daughter were gone, simply gone, and none had seen them, either within the massive walls or outside. Burnell knew to his soul they wouldn’t be found. And who, pray tell, would want to find the witch anyway, and risk being bespelled?
At least, he thought, Sir Lyle of Clive was back at the king’s side after his completed task, a special task given to him by the king himself, who had not confided in him, his secretary and his Chancellor of England, and that did indeed rankle. The king had ordered him to guard Garron, to ensure that he did not come to an untimely death as had his brother Arthur. Burnell remembered how the Valcourt heiress, then only a priest’s byblow, had disliked and suspected Sir Lyle of treachery. He wondered what she thought when she’d learned the truth.
Burnell thought of the king’s share of the silver coins, how that unexpected influx of wealth would undoubtedly buy him at least five hundred soldiers willing to desert their masters and come to him.
And there was another miracle, at least Burnell believed it to be, a miracle no one could have foreseen. Lord Ranulf had told Garron that he did not blame him for the death of his only son, indeed, after what Burnell now thought of as the “divine intervention,” Lord Ranulf had embraced him.
Life, Burnell thought, was such an unexpected mixture of the holy and the profane, a man could only wonder.
EPILOGUE
WAREHAM CASTLE
FOUR MONTHS LATER
Garron and Merry stood side by side on the ramparts of Wareham Castle. It was a fine day in late October, the sun shone bright overhead, the cows grazed in the pasture, now fenced in to the edge of the moat. From the inner bailey, they could hear the muffled sounds of dogs barking mixed with the laughter and shouts of children.
Garron said, “The news the king’s messenger brought us surprised me, I’ll admit it.”
“Come, Garron, you were honestly surprised that my mother wrote to King Edward? After all, she bested him, did she not? She escaped him, made him look like a fool. And now she wanted to put her fist beneath his nose yet again—my sister to wed a French nobleman. Aye, she was smiling when she wrote the letter, knowing we would hear of it sooner or later. Do you think she now owns a wealthy abbey?”
Garron would have given most anything to see the witch dead beneath the heel of his boot for all the misery she had wrought, but it was evidently not to be. He said, “She will probably outlive all of us, our children and their children as well.”
Merry said, “It doesn’t matter now, Garron. Let my mother parade her magick in France, let her bedevil the French,” and she laughed and laid her cheek against his shoulder. “Do you believe my mother might ever come here?”
I pray that she will. “If she does, I will finally be able to kill her.” He hadn’t realized he’d said it aloud.
Merry said, her voice hard, “Not if I get to her first. What she did, the evil of it, I cannot bear it that she is my mother. And my nurse, Ella, loyal to my mother, not to me.”
His warrior. “You will worry no more about any of them.”
“She even managed to take Ella with her when she escaped from England.”
“I was wondering if her incredible beauty would last,” he said as he picked out one of the small hidden braids tucked in amongst the thick plaits, and raised it to his nose. “It is odd that I knew you by the smell of your hair.”
You should have realized within the first five minutes that bitch was an imposter. On the other hand—“At least you knew enough not to wed her.”
“Something deep inside me knew the truth, but how could I accept that you were really not you?”
Mayhap he had a point. A very small point.
“I was wondering since my mother loves my twin so very much, why she didn’t simply take me away and make her the Valcourt heiress.”
He looked out toward the Forest of Glen. “I think your mother knew there was something in your twin that wasn’t right. After several days with her, Merry, I knew I did not want to wed her, there was meanness in her, something unwholesome. Perhaps she feared your twin would turn on her or perhaps she wanted to keep her close.” He shrugged. “Who knows why she didn’t let her trade places with you?”
“I wonder if she is a witch like our mother.” She shuddered. “I will pray that the two of them curse each other and vanish. Aye, I like that notion.”
