He faded as he said the words, and was gone, his last words echoing in repetition behind him: "… Remember… remember… remember…" Then the space where he had stood was empty, and the room was silent.
The children turned to look at one another, and Gwen sought Rod's gaze, but he still frowned toward the place where the ghost had been. She sighed, and turned away to stir up the fire.
Magnus stepped over to Rod, hand lifted, not quite touching. "Papa…"
"Yes." Rod looked up, then smiled. "Good morning, son. Feel like a little hunting?"
"How canst thou now, in the same chamber thou wast in before, read more of their tale now, than thou couldst aforetime, my son?"
"For that I now know whom I seek, Mama. 'Tis like to searching out a face well known within a crowd." Magnus was in one of the knight-and-lady chambers, fingertips tracing the wall. He frowned, shook his head, and turned to touch the bed. He stared then, and went rigid.
"What dost thou see, my son?" Gwen said softly.
"I see the wicked Count, Rafael Fer de Lance, ushering the Lady Sola and her mother, Dame Forla L'Accord, into this chamber." Magnus's voice seemed to come to them on a breeze, wafted from a great distance. "He is no longer young, and is harsh of face, yet with that sort of attraction for women that a snake hath for a bird."
Cordelia shivered.
"He is the last scion of an evil line," Magnus continued, "and is more evil than most, not even deigning to marry, but seducing every maid he can find, by fair means or foul, then abandoning each in her turn. Only the Lady Sola endures against his blandishments. She caught his eye, for she is very beautiful, and the daughter of one of his knights; so Count Foxcourt commanded Sir Donde to attend him with all his family. The knight refused, so the lord ordered him into battle, made sure of his death, and took his family into this castle 'for protection,' no matter Dame Forla's protests—for though her son Julius did succeed to his father's estates, he is too young to administer them."
"Here in his lair?" Cordelia asked. "How could the lady stand against him?"
"She had the love and support of her mother and brother when first she came, which did stiffen her resolve. Sin that she did resist his every blandishment, and her mother was the core of her strength, the Count did have the good dame poisoned."
The ladies gasped, and Geoffrey muttered darkly, but Gregory demanded, "Did the lady then find her own strength within herself?"
Rod glanced at his young son, then realized what he'd said, and stared.
"Not so," Magnus breathed, trembling, "for the Count did trump up a charge of treason 'gainst the brother Julius, but did intimate that the lady's acquiescence might save the lad."
"The villain!" Geoffrey cried, and Rod let out a long, low whistle.
"Then would the lady have yielded out of fear for her brother—but he contrived his escape, and came to her secretly to bid her stand fast. Then he laid a trail of false clues that led his pursuers to think him drowned by his own hand, and hid with a band of tinkers."
"A shrewd lad, a clever lad!" Gregory clapped his hands. "Yet did not the Count suspect?"
"Aye. He did raise the hue and cry, and searched for Julius high and low, but never thought of disguises, and failed to find him. Yet he told the lady that the boy was imprisoned and would be tortured."
Cordelia's eyes were huge. "How could she then hold against him?"
"The brother did contrive to bring his tinker-band hard by the castle walls, so that she saw him from her tower window, and heard him sing a song they'd shared in childhood.
Gregory sighed in admiration, and Geoffrey muttered, "The lad did not lack for courage."
"The lady became obdurate again," Magnus went on, "and the lord did guess that someone in the castle had betrayed the secret that the boy was missing. He began a hunt for his supposed traitor, and confined her to her chamber, visiting her daily, and alone."
"Oh!" Cordelia clapped a hand over her mouth. "He forced her, then?"
"Nay, for the chase had become too much a matter of pride for him. Yet he scrupled not to bring her wine mingled with a potent drug. She was wary, though, and knew the potion by its odor; she refused to drink—nor would she quaff too deeply of brandy wine, though he did ply her with it."
"A worthy lady," Gregory breathed, bright-eyed, "and a prudent one. Could the Count not see she was proof against his wiles?"
"Belike he did, for he lost patience, accused her of witchcraft, tried and sentenced her—and did attempt to have his rape of her be part of that sentence."
"Would he not even then give over?" Cordelia said with some heat.
"He did," Magnus answered. "Not by any notion of chivalry, no, but by the clamoring of one and all, clergy and laity, who cried that he would have intercourse with the devil. When he discerned that they might topple him from his seat, he did give over, and had to be content with her burning at the stake."
"Thus died a brave and valiant wench," Geoffrey murmured.
"Aye, and one whose life brought her only sorrow." Tears glittered in Cordelia's eyes.
"What of the lord?" Gregory breathed.
"The Count lived out his life as ever he had lived, in cruelty and depravity—yet was he more willing to resort to rape."
"And what of the lad?" Geoffrey demanded. "The bold, audacious brother? Sought he no revenge?"
"Aye, when he had come to manhood, and had claimed his right to knighthood. Then did he stride into Foxcourt's Great Hall and challenge the Count before all his company—with a score of King's knights at his back."
"There was no help for it, then." Geoffrey grinned. "The Count must needs have fought him."
"He did, yet with treachery and deviousness, as ever. He coated his blade with poison and did manage to nick Sir Julius, just as he was on the verge of slaying the lord."
"Ah, poor knight! What a base, depraved Count was this!"
"He was indeed." Magnus's voice finally hardened. "Yet he died in his bed, of no worse enemy than jaundice and gout—and he died without issue—or legitimate heirs, at the least."
"His line died with him, then," Gregory breathed,
"Even so. Oh, there was a cadet branch of the house…"
"Still is," Rod murmured.
"…Yet they had too much sense to want the castle. Therefore hath it languished here, untenanted and grim, whilst centuries have rolled—and the Count's shade hath ceaselessly pursued the Lady Sola, whose ghost, ever lamenting the deaths of her mother, father, and brother, still haunts these halls, seeking some way to atone."
"Yet she hath no need!" Cordelia insisted. "There was no fault in her!"
But, "Hush," Gwen said, and reached out to take hold of Magnus's wrist, lifting his hand from the wall. The young man froze; then, slowly, his eyes came into focus again. He blinked, turning to look at Gwen. "Mother?"
"Aye," Gwen said softly. " 'Tis past, my son—hundreds of years past. Thou art with us again, as thou ever wast, with thy father, and myself, and thy sibs."
Magnus turned to his brothers and sister, blinking.
Cordelia whirled toward her mother. "There is no rightness in it, Mama! There is no justice!"
"The world is not always fair, my daughter," Gwen answered, her face grim, "and Heaven's judgement comes not till we are dead."
"Yet what justice hath Heaven given here, that the lass's ghost abides in torment, while the lord's is gone!"
"Gone where?" Geoffrey said, with a curl of the lip.
"Good point," Rod responded. "And for the damsel Sola—well, I can certainly understand why she lingers here, weighed down by false guilt for the lives of her whole family."
Cordelia turned, eyes wide. "Dost mean that, to free her, we have but to tell her 'twas the Count's guilt, and not hers?"
"No, we have to convince her of it—and with a good person, that can be very hard indeed."