Suzanne Barclay - Knights Divided

“Nay.” Sir Thomas set aside his cup and scrubbed a hand over his face, rearranging the fleshy folds into a mask of regret. “I am so sorry to bring you this news, but your sister is dead.”

“Dead!” The air whooshed out of her lungs, taking with it the starch in her knees. She sank into the chair. Tears blurred her vision; a dozen questions whirled in her brain. “H-how?”

“She was murdered,” Sir Thomas said softly. He handed her a linen handkerchief and went on, the explanation falling like hot acid on her aching heart. Two weeks ago, Celia’s maid had gone to awaken her mistress and found her dead. “I apologize for the delay, but it took me that long to conclude my investigation and locate you…through some letters in her possession.”

Emmeline battled her tears. “H-how did she die?”

“She was strangled.”

“Strangled?” Emmeline’s throat contracted. “By a thief?”

“No one had forced their way in, and naught was missing. Nor did Lily see anyone, for Mistress Celia had sent her off to bed. Despite the late hour, Lily says she was expecting a visitor.”

“A lover who killed Celia in a passionate rage.”

“Do you have proof of that?”

“Nay.” She was appalled she’d spoken aloud. “I am given to fanciful musings, I fear.” She’d tried so hard to break herself of such nonsense, to be practical and logical like her mama. But Cedric came from a long line of minstrels, and the urge to weave romantic tales seemed to be bred into her.

Sir Thomas nodded. “Small wonder. The minstrels fill women’s heads with songs of love and passion. Actually, we do believe Celia’s visitor was a lover. She had undressed and donned her bed robe. Do you know if she was involved with someone?”

“I had a letter from Ce-Celia a month ago. She mentioned a man.” Emmeline rushed to unlock the chest where she kept her receipts and papers. A rare letter from Celia was tucked along the side. As she took it out, she saw the ledger wedged into the corner, and a pang of guilt went through her. It contained the verses she’d penned in secret With her mother gone, there was no longer any reason to hide them, but it seemed unfaithful to Mama’s memory to flaunt a skill she’d detested.

Emmeline returned to the chair and unrolled the letter. Celia’s scrawl was as erratic and impetuous as her personality. Oh, Celia, I shall miss you so. Tears blurred her vision. She blinked them back. A Spencer did not cry in public. “’I have met the most…’” She squinted. “’Wonderful,’ I think this says. ‘Wonderful man. Lord Jamie Har…Har-something.’”

“Harcourt”. Sir Thomas grunted in what sounded like disgust.

“What is it? Do you know him?”

“Aye, and I’ve questioned him, too. I said naught before because I did not want to put words into your mouth, but Lily said Mistress Celia was having an affair with Lord Jamie. Though she was not certain ’twas he your sister expected that fateful night. Do you know how long she’d been involved with him?”

“I—I don’t. Celia seldom wrote or came to Derry, and I…I never cared for the city, so I didn’t visit her.” Reaction trembled through her. “I should have. I should have—”

“Humph. No sense flaying yourself over that, mistress. What else does she say about James Harcourt?”

Emmeline looked down, frowning. “He owns a ship…and is always sailing off on some…adventure or another, but when he comes back this time, I’m certain he’ll wed me.’”

“Humph.”

“I take it Lord Jamie is not the marrying sort”.

“He’s said to have been through more women than three men.”

Emmeline wasn’t surprised. Like mother, like daughter. “Do you have any proof he killed her?”

“Nay,” he said slowly. “But there’s one more thing you should know. Lily suspected your sister was carrying a child. Though Lady Celia hadn’t named the father—”

“My God! Celia tried to use the child to force him to wed her and he…he killed her.”

“We cannot know that,” he said gently. “Lord Jamie was out to sea when your sister was killed.”

“Then he had her killed.”

“Of that, I’ve no proof.”

“But…you mean he’ll go free? He’ll get away with murder?”

He sighed. “Without proof, my hands are tied. ’Tis possible she was also, er, involved with another,” he murmured.

Emmeline stiffened. “My sister was not like that.”

“Life in London is more, er, free than it is here.”

“Bother that. What about justice? Does Celia go unavenged?”

“I cannot prosecute a man like Lord Jamie, a wealthy lord from a powerful family whose friends number among them John, Duke of Lancaster, without proof.”

Emmeline’s chest tightened, and with it, her resolve. Sir Thomas’s hands might be tied, but hers weren’t. She didn’t know how, just yet, but one way or another, she’d prove this James Harcourt had murdered Celia and make certain he was punished.

Harte Court September 18, 1386

It was dark by the. time Jamie Harcourt drew rein at the crest of the knoll. Not that he needed the light to guide him, for this was the land of his birth. He’d explored these fields and forests from the time he could walk, and every square inch was indelibly engraved on his mind.

Yet a thrill went through him as he looked across to the keep built high on the opposing bluff. Harte Court was as vast as a small city, its four sturdy towers and countless dependencies tucked safely behind twelve-foot-thick walls. Fierce and intimidating, some called it the impregnable fortress, but to him it was home. Or had been once.

Home. A pang of longing struck him, swift, sharp and totally unexpected. After seven years in exile, he’d hoped he’d gotten over his attachment to this place. Now he knew he never would. As the eldest son, Harte Court was his birthright, yet he could never claim it. The familiar bitterness rose up inside him. Impatiently he shoved it away. His time here was short, too short for useless regrets.

“No sense borrowing trouble when we’ve plenty enough, eh lad?” He patted Neptune’s glossy black neck and kneed the stallion back onto the road. The air smelled sweet indeed to a nose more used to the tang of the sea. ’Twas fragrant with the mingled scent of ripe wheat and the wildflowers nodding in the hedgerows separating the fields into neat squares. Prosperous and well tended, he mused. There seemed to be more cultivated land than he recalled from his youth, but then, he’d been more interested in chasing the maids and learning to wield a sword than overseeing the estate that would one day be his.

Now he could not afford to care.

Resolutely pinning his gaze to the ribbon of dusty road, he thought instead of the things he must do after he’d paid his duty call. Return to London. Meet with Harry. Sail quickly back to Cornwall. Tight schedule. No time for lagging or sentimentality.

“Who goes there?” demanded a gruff voice.

Jamie looked up, startled to find the moment he’d been anticipating and dreading was nearly at hand. The drawbridge had been lowered over the moat, but was manned by a guard of twenty. Not surprising in these troubled times. “Jamie Harcourt, come to bid my mother well on her name day.”

“The hell ye say.” A stout soldier in Harcourt green and gold strode forward and held a torch aloft. “Jesu, it is ye.”

Jamie laughed. “I know. George of Walken, is it not?”

“Ye’ve a good memory, milord.” The old warrior grinned. “Yer sire said ye’d come to honor yer lady mother, but—”

“No one thought I’d dare show my scarred face.”

George looked at the patch covering the ruins of Jamie’s left eye, then away. “There was some who thought ye’d not come…considering that murder business, but I wagered on ye.”