Conventional manners dictated Jo murmur some platitude, but she found herself gripped by the desire to know more about Sir Graybow’s sorrow. The words, “How … did they die?” slipped out before she could catch them.
The castellan continued to methodically rub the book across the table, though Jo saw now that he was beginning to fray the book’s edges against the corner of the table. She didn’t dare point that out to him. His knuckles on the book were turning white beneath the aged skin.
“Elowyn was … fourteen and Fritha … twelve,” Sir Graybow said. His gruff voice was so gravelly that Jo barely understood him. His unblinking eyes remained locked on the book he held. Jo leaned closer to hear his words, for the man’s voice had become a whisper. “Their parents died of plague. Somehow they were spared and came to live with me. I was their only kin.
“It was early winter, and the old baron was holding a great hunt,” Sir Graybow continued slowly. Jo assumed he meant Baron Arturus Penhaligon, Arteris’s father and the man to whom Flinn had been so devoted. She strained to hear Sir Graybow’s next words. “The girls were marvelous archers, both of them, and they pleaded with me to let them join the hunt.
“I couldn’t say no to them, and the baron couldn’t either.” For the first time the castellan lifted his hand from the book and looked about the room. Jo had the impression he was looking back into a distant time, when the castle had a very different lord. “They joined us on the hunt, and we spotted a giant boar almost immediately. It fled south of here, into the Moor, where apparently it made its lair.”
Jo drew her breath. She’d heard tales of how dangerous wild boars were, particularly if injured or cornered.
The castellan continued, “They were young, and they’d never been on a hunt before. They spotted the boar and immediately raced after it. We lost sight of them. Then the boar circled back and caught me and the rest of the party. Elowyn’s and Fritha’s arrows had bloodied it, but not seriously injured it. It was mad, furious for blood, and it turned on us. Three of my men died before we downed the beast.” Sir Graybow stopped speaking. Jo saw his extra chin quiver as he swallowed several times.
When a respectful silence had passed and the castellan still didn’t say anything, Jo said tentatively, as gently as she could, “What … happened to … Elowyn and Fritha?”
The castellan took a deep breath, and his eyes closed and sank into the folds of his face. He touched his forehead and then nervously brushed back his thinning hair. His hand shook.
“We followed their trail as best we could, though it grew dark fast that time of year,” he said huskily. “To make matters worse, the girls were hopelessly lost. They headed deeper into the swamp. Soon we were lost, too; no one knows the Moor well. But at least we had camped in the wilderness before and knew what to do. Then the rain began to fall.
“Some called it quits for the night and set up camp, but a few stout fellows stayed with me—Flinn was one such. One by one, though, they had to turn back; the last one made Flinn return with him, telling him the baron needed him. I couldn’t fault them for leaving. Elowyn and Fritha were my nieces, not theirs.”
Jo wasn’t surprised to hear Flinn’s part in the tale, and she knew he would have been torn by Graybow’s obvious need. Jo pictured Flinn standing before the castellan, winter rain freezing them. He would want to believe there was still hope for the two young girls lost in the great marsh in winter, but would know there couldn’t be. And he would also know that his allegiance lay first with the baron. In the end, he had no choice.
“I drove my horse onward. My lantern blew out a dozen times before my tinder grew too wet to light it. I didn’t need it anyway—the wind blew so much debris and rain that I couldn’t see even with light. But I’d hoped it would attract the girls, and I missed it for that reason.” Graybow’s voice had become a hushed, ghostly whisper, and his breath curled in gray wisps from his lips.
“I stayed to the high ground, praying my nieces would do the same. But the weather grew colder and nastier, the wind more chill and biting. The rain turned to sleet, then to snow. I pushed my horse to cross channels of water, forcing him to carry me on to the next patch of icy ground.” The castellans voice had grown gruff, and Jo could almost hear the frigid waters sluicing past the stallion’s legs.
“I kept going. When my horse finally collapsed, I left him wallowing in a frozen morass of swampland. I stumbled, dazed, away, not even thinking to end his misery.” The castellan stopped and swallowed, then continued, “I began to walk through that swamp. The water came up to my waist in most parts, and over my head in others. The winds howled, and the snow whirled about me so fiercely I knew I was only walking in circles; I had no sense of direction.
“How I kept going, I don’t know. I only knew I couldn’t stop until I found my girls. I called. I walked and I called all through that night and on into the next morning. I called my nieces’ names until my throat was raw and my spittle red.” The castellan picked up the book and stroked the frayed edges. It was a long minute before he continued.
“I stumbled across their bodies late the next morning by accident. They were in the water, frozen; the water was no more than two feet deep. Ice covered the surface of their little pond—and their little faces.”
The castellan dropped the book abruptly. He looked at Jo, his eyes suddenly naked with emotion. “There’ll be no etiquette lesson today,” he said gruffly. With long, swift strides he made for the stairwell and hurried out the door.
Chapter VI
Sir Lile Graybow smiled his approval as Jo crossed the floor between them. She grinned back, then looked down at herself. She had polished her dark maroon boots until they shone, the silver clasps glistening against the heavy leather. Her new breeches, provided by the baroness for tonight’s ceremony, were midnight blue and made of a light, summery cloth.
Jo picked at the nape and said, “These aren’t likely to last long,” she said, somewhat scornfully.
The castellan laughed, and Jo shyly smiled at him. “Jo,” the man said, “these are pants to wear only on special occasions—perhaps even only this once.”
Jo frowned. “To wear only once?” she asked, perplexed. “Isn’t that awfully extravagant? Can the baroness afford breeches for everyone for every occasion?” she asked anxiously.
The castellan rubbed his heavy jowls. “What is the matter with you, my dear?” he asked kindly, though he tried to mask that by making his voice even more gruff. His pale blue eyes almost disappeared in the folds of his face.
Then realization touched his face. “Ah,” he said quietly. “Were you very poor?”
Jo blinked once or twice rapidly. Sir Graybow had a most disconcerting habit of asking astute questions. She walked toward one of the tower’s windows. She could see servants scurrying about below in preparation for the night’s festivities. She turned to face the castellan. “Yes,” she said simply, “I was very poor.”
“Tell me about your parents,” Sir Graybow suggested. He sat down on one of the nearby settees. Jo leaned against the rough stuccoed wall and looked at the castellan, while Sir Graybow continued. “Flinn told me about them—how they never showed up at the port in Specularum as planned,” Graybow said gently. “What a terrible loss for a little girl.”
As always, Sir Graybow’s sensitivity undid her. Jo had never known anyone who was so habitually kind. Even Flinn had never been actually kind to her. Jo looked down at her hands, resting on her lap. Beneath her hands shone the golden yellow tunic of a squire. Midnight-blue threads created a swirling floral embroidery around the center of the tunic, and an intricate lacework about the tunic’s edges. Jo was proud to wear that tunic tonight, to be recognized before all the people of Penhaligon as worthy to wear it. She picked off a stray thread and then looked at Sir Graybow, who was sitting nearby and waiting patiently. Jo shrugged.