“Miss Farnsworth,” the Viscount began immediately, “I am aghast at the danger in which I placed you! Please, allow me to beg your forgiveness and assure you that it was not my intention to test your horsemanship, for which, miss, I must say, I salute you.” The steel in Miss Farnsworth’s countenance softened quickly under Monmouth’s soothing speech, and by its end, she was once more the agreeable young woman who had charmed them in the courtyard.
“My lord, you are quickly forgiven, for I was in little real danger.” She studiously avoided Darcy’s face, choosing rather to exert her charm upon Monmouth.
“You are too modest in your praise, Monmouth,” Trenholme interrupted. “Miss Farnsworth, you were magnificent!” Darcy looked between the two men in disbelief. Both incidents had betrayed an abysmal lack of caution or understanding of horseflesh on the part of both his old roommate and the lady. Trenholme’s part had been wholly that of a coward, offering no help during the danger at all! Without a word, Darcy urged his mount back onto the track with the conviction that, with such encouragement as the two were giving Miss Farnsworth, the accident that had been avoided would merely be postponed.
The sleighs caught up to them in a matter of minutes, and the situation was explained and exclaimed upon for a full quarter of an hour before they recommenced the outing to the stones. The riders took up places beside the sleighs so that conversations begun could continue. It was a question from Miss Avery that drew Darcy beside the sleigh conveying her, her brother, Lord Sayre, and Lady Felicia.
“I don’t know, Bella. Ask Sayre,” Manning grumbled at his sister. “And mind you speak up, girl.”
Miss Avery swallowed nervously as she turned her eyes upon Sayre, causing Darcy to feel a new burst of pity for her; but her curiosity must have outweighed her fear in this instance, for she blurted out her question. “My l-l-lord,” she began, her voice quavering, “Lady Sylvanie s-s-said that t-the stones have a n-n-name, and that w-when stones have n-names, they have a story. Is that t-t-true?”
Sayre smiled at his sister-in-law. “Miss Avery, there are always tales, nonsense really, about old things: old castles, old tombs, old trees, old stones. The King’s Men are no exception. I am sure there are any number of stories about them.”
“King’s Men?” Miss Avery’s brow creased in confusion. “Lady Sylvanie did not c-call them th-that!”
“Ah…well,” Sayre responded but then lapsed into silence.
“Miss Avery is correct, my lord,” Lady Felicia said. “Lady Sylvanie called them the Knights, I believe.”
“The Whispering Kn-knights!” Miss Avery declared triumphantly. “Yes, th-that was it! C-can you tell us the s-story, my lord?” Darcy was not the only listener to be taken by surprise by the vehemence of Sayre’s answer.
“It is all rot, I tell you! Nothing to it!” His Lordship’s eyes stormed black in his pale face. Miss Avery cringed visibly.
“What is ‘rot,’ my dear brother?” Trenholme advanced his mount to take up the place on the side opposite Darcy’s.
“The Knights!” Sayre huffed. “Rubbish, all rubbish!”
“I would like to hear the tale,” Lady Felicia said, smiling up at Trenholme, “rubbish or no.” Trenholme cocked a brow at his brother, but Sayre only snorted and looked away.
“It is a dark tale, my lady, and perhaps not fit for delicate ears,” Trenholme began solemnly. Darcy rolled his eyes as the man baited his audience. As Darcy expected, Trenholme’s listeners demanded he begin immediately. “The stones have been called the King’s Men for only the last hundred years. From time immemorial, they were known as the Whispering Knights.”
“Why was the name changed?” asked Manning. “King’s Men…Whispering Knights! What nonsense!”
“As I told you,” interrupted Sayre.
“It is said,” Trenholme continued, regathering his audience, “that our great-grandfather took the opportunity to change its name when some writer fellow came through Oxfordshire gathering local tales. Our grandsire told him they were called the King’s Men, made up some Banbury tale about them, and sent the fellow on his way. So, to the world outside Chipping Norton, they are the King’s Men, but those who have lived here all their lives know better.”
“Why d-did he d-do that?” Miss Avery’s fascination was complete.
“Because of the legend, Miss Avery, the legend of the Whispering Knights. He wanted to put a stop to it. But I ask you, can a mere change of name confound a legend?” Trenholme looked to his rapt audience for an answer, but no one ventured to gainsay him except Sayre, who snorted again and shifted his bulk in his seat. Darcy bit his lip to prevent himself from laughing at the easy success of Trenholme’s strategy. He was quite good, really.
“The legend, Mr. Trenholme, tell us the legend.” Lady Felicia reached across and took Miss Avery’s hand.
“Yes, the legend…A thousand years ago the land here was the domain of a powerful lord. Norwycke Castle faces toward his fortified hill, actually.” Trenholme’s voice dropped. “As with many such men at that time, he had enemies from both without and within, including one of his own sons. This unfaithful son was assisted in his disloyalty by six of his father’s knights, to whom he had promised wealth from his father’s strongbox or deeds of land if they would support him. The night came when they were to strike, but within moments of their appearance, the cry of ‘Treason, treason!’ rang through the keep.” Miss Avery clutched Lady Felicia’s hand at Trenholme’s cry and gasped aloud. Manning and Lady Felicia were hardly less caught in the tale, their eyes trained upon Trenholme.
“Yes, and then?” demanded Manning.
“The conspirators knew they had been betrayed, but which one was the betrayer? They had no time to determine who among them it was, for flight was their only chance to survive. They fought their way out of the keep and past the gates, never thinking to ask themselves how they had succeeded in winning past all their lord’s mighty men. All they knew was that life lay across these fields and on to the sea and Ireland.”
“Rather careless of this lord to let them slip through his fingers when he had been warned,” Manning observed, his air of disinterest now flown.
“Careless? Or part of the plan?” Trenholme countered. “The traitorous son and his men fled for their lives over these very fields, only to be met by his lord father and his personal guard. The lord cried out to his son to lay down his arms, but he answered his father with great curses and called his men to resist. They formed a circle, the better to protect each other’s backs, and railed against the lord and his guard, challenging them to come to and fight. All, that is, except one. The betrayer, or rather the knight loyal to his lord, stepped from the circle and stood with his lord. Enraged with the man at whose hands his dreams had been slain, the son drew a knife from his boot and threw. It flew true, and the faithful knight fell dead at the feet of his lord.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Lady Felicia and Miss Avery, their eyes as wide as the buttons on Manning’s greatcoat. Darcy smiled. Yes, Trenholme was very good indeed. It lacked now only the curse. There was always a curse. He looked away to Sayre and discovered a listener who was no longer derisive of the tale being told. The hand grasping his walking stick was actually trembling! The other was occupied in loosening the knot at his throat while he attempted to take in gulps of air without attracting the notice of his companions. Good heavens, the man was clearly rattled! Darcy narrowed his gaze upon Trenholme.
“‘Oh’ indeed!” repeated the storyteller. “The lord knelt at the side of his fallen knight and pulled the knife from his body. Then he rose and faced his son. In the hearing of all he disowned him, called him traitor and worse. The rebels jeered and rattled their swords against their shields. ‘These are the dogs that have sworn you fealty, bought men you bribed with your own birthright?’ the lord asked. His son said nothing, but his eyes spoke everything that was in his black heart.