Jane Feather - The Emerald Swan

Imogen came in at his call. Her eyes were sparkling as they fell on the parchment in his hand. "It's done?" she said.

"Aye, it's done." He held it out to her. She read it avidly. "Duke of Vesle," she whispered. "Ambassador to the court of Elizabeth the First. Oh, Gareth, it's even more than I dared to hope." She looked up at him. "Why, what is that on your forehead?"

"A bruise," he said carelessly. "I knocked my head on the cresset when I was entering the barge last even." Mary would tell Imogen the whole soon enough and Imogen's present excitement soon made her forget an unsightly bruise on her brother's temple.

"Oh, Miles… only see this." She turned at her husband s rather timid entrance.

"The door was open…" Miles offered. "And I knew that you'd been with Henry…"

"It's done." Imogen flourished the document in triumph. "Read it! The dukedom of Vesle, no less."

Miles obediently read the betrothal contract. Then he looked over at his brother-in-law, a question in his eye.

"I should have information soon about Maude's whereabouts," Gareth said tiredly. "As soon as I do, I'll go after her. But there's little to be gained in charging all over the countryside before I know her direction."

"No, of course not," Miles said. "But… but what of Miranda?"

"She has chosen her own way," Gareth replied, his tone curt. "She was always free to leave when she chose. Now is as good a time as any."

"Oh, yes, most certainly," Imogen agreed fervently. "The girl would be in the way now. She did her part and she's been paid for it. Everything is just as it should be."

"Excuse me." Gareth moved past her to the door. "I have business in town. I'll not be joining you for dinner."

He took his horse, rode over London Bridge, and into the Southwark stews. He had but one intention, to get thoroughly besotted and to lose himself in the arms of a whore… or several whores. The drink he found, but the deeper he drank the more unpleasing he found the whores. Drink frequently dulled performance but he couldn't remember it ever before dulling desire.

He rode back across the bridge just before daylight and bribed the watchmen to open the wicket gate for him although it was not yet sunup. He swayed drunkenly in his saddle, vaguely aware that he must present a choice target for street thieves, drunk and exhausted, riding alone, too far gone even to have his hand on his sword hilt.

He had ridden like this before, many a time-back to his house as the cocks began to crow, his spirit dead, his head fogged with mead and wine, his limbs almost too heavy to move, every muscle and joint aching with a fatigue too deep, too central to his whole being, for mere sleep to repair. Thus had he ridden back so many times before to his empty bed, wondering whose sheets his wife was sharing. Wondering if she was rolling in straw in some kennel, or was lying in the gutter with a beggar.

Charlotte. His wife… his love. Oh, he had loved Charlotte with his heart and soul. It seemed he had a propensity for vulgarity. Gareth laughed to himself as he half fell off his horse in the mews. A propensity for vulgarity. He rather liked that. Mary would certainly agree. He stumbled toward the house, still laughing to himself, unaware of the groom's sleepy stare, following him as he weaved his way out of the mews.

He staggered up the stairs, not noticing how much noise he made in the still-silent house, and lurched into his bedchamber, kicking the door shut behind him with a loud slam. He didn't bother to undress, merely yanked off his boots against the bootjack, and then fell onto the bed. The thick feather mattress seemed to envelop him and he sank down and down, as the dark wave of sleep rolled over him and Charlotte beckoned from the abyss.

Imogen sat up in bed at the slam of Gareth's door. She stared into the darkness, listening, but all was now silent. She'd heard her brother stumbling and lurching down the corridor and all the old bad memories had resurfaced. How many nights had she sat up waiting through the hours of darkness for Gareth to return? How many times had she listened to his staggering step, her heart pounding, her entire being straining toward him in his pain even as her soul was filled with hatred for the woman who was destroying him?

But why now? Why would he now be revisiting that time of horror? Now, when everything was working out so perfectly for them all? Her brother had returned to himself since he'd come back from France. He was once more strong, directed, determined, and Imogen had allowed herself to believe that he was no longer plagued by demons.

But that step in the corridor outside her door, the crash of his own door, filled her with the remembered terror of her helplessness. She cast aside the bedclothes and stepped down onto the footstool beside the bed. Her night-robe lay over the rail and she put it on, automatically reaching up to straighten her nightcap that kept her careful curls from becoming too tangled overnight. Softly she opened her door. The lamp in the wall sconce in the corridor flickered in the breeze from her window and guttered, plunging the long passage into darkness.

But her eyes were accustomed to the dark by now and she moved stealthily down the corridor. At Gareth's door she stopped. She pressed her ear to the crack and listened. At first she could hear nothing and she began to hope… but then she heard it. The tangled mutter of words, the harsh breathing.

She opened his door as she had done so many times before and slipped inside, closing it behind her. Gareth's nightmares were known only to her, they were one of the many secrets they shared.

"Charlotte!!" It was almost a scream. Gareth sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes wide open, staring. Imogen knew he was still asleep. She rushed to the bed. His face ran with sweat as if he were in the grip of a fever, his shirt was transparent.

"Gareth… Gareth… wake up!" She took his hand, patted it, cradled it against her bosom. "Wake up! You're dreaming!"

Gareth's eyes focused slowly but the dream hell took a long time to fade. "God's mercy!" he murmured, turning his head to look at his sister, still holding his hand, her eyes fixed upon him with the fanatical devotion that had followed his every footstep from the first moment he'd found his feet.

"God's mercy, Imogen," he repeated, falling back against the pillows, gently pulling his hand free. He wiped the palm of his hand down his sweat-drenched face and lay staring upward, gathering himself together. He thought he was probably still drunk, but his head was now as clear as a bell.

He had a propensity for vulgarity. He began to laugh again. Maybe he was still drunk, but this glorious laughter was an utterly sober reaction to the truth.

"Gareth, stop!" Imogen bent over him, her face haggard, her eyes filled with anxiety. This strange merriment was something she didn't know how to deal with. "Why are you laughing?"

"Fetch me the brandy, Imogen." He sat up again. "There's no cause for alarm, sister. I'm quite in my senses. In fact," he added with another little chuckle, "I'm probably in my senses for the first time in years."

"I don't know what you mean." Imogen brought him the flagon of brandy. "You were having the nightmare about Charlotte again."

"Yes," Gareth said softly, sliding to the floor. "But I truly believe it was for the last time, Imogen." He set down the brandy flagon untouched.

Imogen regarded him with deep disquiet. She didn't believe him, and the terrifying thought occurred to her that he might have become truly unhinged. She began to speak urgently, trying to force him to acknowledge the facts that would bring him back to reality. "I have always looked after you, always taken care of your interests, Gareth. I knew that something had to be done about Charlotte-"