Margo Maguire - The Bride Of Windermere

“Can you manage now, or should I call for someone to help?” she asked, somewhat breathlessly.

“Why would I need help?” he asked, all traces of drunken speech remarkably absent.

“Why would...? You’re not drunk at all, are you?” she asked, seeing the amusement in his eyes and realizing that he had been toying with her.

“Of course not, Sprout. I never drink too much,” he said, puzzled by his own behavior. He had never feigned drunkenness before, nor any other condition. Wolf told himself that he’d felt compelled to follow when Philip had taken Kit from the hall only because it was his sworn duty to protect her. And after witnessing his cousin’s lecherous looks at supper, he didn’t trust that the lady would be safe with him alone in the dark gallery.

“Why, you... you... deceitful lout!” Kit cried. “Roses indeed!” She looked for something to throw at him, but seeing nothing readily at hand, Kit whirled about and tore out of his chamber, leaving him in darkness.

When she reached her room, Kit closed the door more gently than she would have liked, in deference to Bridget, who was sleeping. Her blood was pounding in her ears. Kit wasn’t sure if her upset was from anger, annoyance or fear of what might have happened if she’d let Wolf kiss her. Would he have recognized her as the woman at the lake from one kiss?

Standing there in the gloom, her distress simmered, but her worried lips gave way to a slow smile as she thought of Wolf feigning inebriation. The act had been contrived entirely for her benefit. If not for Wolfs interference in the corridor, Kit would either have had to submit to the earl or do something equally embarrassing. Neither option was acceptable, and Wolf had saved her from having to make the choice. She grinned. His method of rescue had been perfect Perhaps he wasn’t totally lacking a sense of humor.

Kit pulled off her concealing veil and wondered if he had merely played the diplomat, or had the sight of the earl pawing at her given him the impetus to intervene? The thought intrigued her as she sat down on the bed next to Bridget and felt her fevered forehead. No one had ever seen fit to rescue her before. Not even Rupert.

The fire in the grate had all but died as Kit undressed by candlelight and slipped into a thin white gown. Though the chamber was deep in shadows, Kit knew there was a small bed in the far corner. She intended to spend the night there so as not to disturb Bridget’s sleep. As she lifted the candle and turned, a strange sound came to her ears from the depths of the shadows. Kit stood still to listen for it again. Finally, she heard a voice speaking in a harsh, laughing whisper. It was an eerie sound.

“The rooster’s found another pretty little hen to decorate his roost!” Kit raised the candle a bit in order to better illuminate the room. A deeper shadow moved in front of the fire, and Kit knew the speaker was there. Too frightened to approach the apparition, she set down the candle and went back to the bed where Bridget lay. Her knife was concealed under the extra pillow. She didn’t know what the intruder wanted, but Kit planned to protect herself and Bridget.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“Methinks the wolf this time will thwart our bird and serve him up for supper.”

Bridget moaned a little in her sleep, the sound startling Kit nearly out of her skin.

“You speak nonsense! Come into the light and let me see you.” The last thing she really wanted was to see whatever demon was speaking, but Kit bolstered her courage and demanded a confrontation.

The little bent-over figure moved slowly away from the fire and approached the chest where Kit had set the candle. When finally it stopped near the light, it turned. Kit saw it was nothing but an old woman, bent by a hump on her back, and cloaked in some coarse, dark cloth.

“Ahh! ’Twill be good to see him brought low!” the woman clapped her hands in glee.

“Who are you?” Kit whispered again.

“I?” She looked incredulously at Kit, unable to believe that anyone might not know her. “I am the Countess of Windermere.” She threw her head back and laughed silently. It was a bizarre laugh causing chills to move down Kit’s back as she watched the wretched old thing going through the motions of laughter with no sound.

“I...I thought the Countess...died last spring... You are not, you could not be her...her ghost? Could you?”

More infernal laughter. Kit trembled, certain she was poor Clarisse’s ghost.

“Agatha.”

“What?” Kit whispered, completely confused now.

“I! Me! I am Agatha. Wife of Clarence the Usurper.”

“Who is Clarence?” Kit asked, now totally confused.

“Clarence was the father of the peacock who now struts about Windermere Castle. Philip, he is called.”

The riddles were giving Kit a headache, and she was beginning to suspect that this Agatha was no more an apparition than Bridget.

“What do you want?”

“Take care. He needs a new hen to breed him some chicks. The last could give him no brood.”

“I don’t understand you! Can you not speak plainly?”

“Your wolf will find all he needs if he has the time and knows where to look.”

“My wolf—” She realized with a shock that the woman meant Gerhart, who was never called Wolf. “Who do you mean? What are you saying?”

“Silver eyes. Black thatch. Rightful earl.” Her words were said as though they were part of a song, an oftrepeated song.

“Do you mean Sir Gerhart?”

“Ahh, is that what he is called? Born of Bartholomew and Margrethe. Finally come for his birthright.” The strange silent laugh came over her again.

Finally, the old woman turned and hobbled back into the shadows. And then she was gone.

Kit stood still for a moment, afraid to move. It had been the oddest experience of her life, and she had no idea what to make of it. Had the woman just vanished into thin air? Where else could she have gone? The door hadn’t opened, and she couldn’t possibly have left through the window. Kit finally gathered her courage and went over to light a candelabra. With more light, she verified that the old woman was truly gone.

It was a long time before Kit fell asleep. Awakening early to the sounds of Bridget coughing and wheezing, she got up to administer more of the medicine to her old companion and was unable to go back to sleep. The room was chilly, so she added wood to the fire and then wandered about, puzzling over the events of the previous night.

Unfortunately, not much was clear about the old crow’s visit the night before. She’d said she was Agatha, that much Kit understood. The old earl was Clarence, and Agatha claimed she had been his countess. If that were true, why did the old lady bobble around in the night, appearing and disappearing out of thin air, and babbling riddles like a madwoman? What self-respecting earl would allow his mother to go about in coarse rags, pestering the castle guests?

Kit opened the shutters to see that it was just barely dawn. It seemed a pleasant spring day, the rain having let up sometime during the night. It was still overcast, but the haziness only made the tree trunks seem blacker and the leaves more green. Even the grasses in the distance were more vibrant than Kit remembered. It was a beautiful land with neatly tilled rows on the hills and a good-sized town in the distance.

She poured water into the basin and began washing, when she saw a tiny gray mouse skitter across the room and disappear under a huge tapestry which hung from ceiling to floor. Kit hadn’t paid much attention to it before, for the cloth was darkened and obscured with age, making the details unintelligible.

Wondering about the mouse hole, and thinking to block it up, Kit went over and pulled the tapestry aside enough to search for the crack. Instead, she found more than a mere crack. The tapestry covered a false stone wall, which concealed a door hanging on hidden hinges. A small round hole, just big enough for two fingers was carved into the stone door. Kit put her fingers in, and the catch turned noiselessly. The door swung in heavily.