"Ah!" Geoffrey's eyes glowed. "That command thou couldst not ignore, for 'twas the essence of thy knighthood!"
" 'Tis even as thou sayest." The knight bowed his head. "And he set me in the front rank, to be slain in the first charge—yet did not trust to fortune; for at the moment when my lance struck home 'gainst my opponent, a bolt did strike through mine armor 'neath my shoulder blade."
"From behind!" Geoffrey cried. "Ah, what scurvy knave of an archer did that for him?"
"I know not, yet I misdoubt me an his pay was aught than death, for only a fool of a lord would chance his other knights' learning of such foul treachery. The barb pierced home, and I did swoon, and was mindful of naught else, till I did step forth from my mortal part."
"And went straight up to be caught between your duties and your rewards." Rod nodded. "So you don't even know what happened to your daughter."
"Only that she was driven to death by one means or another, and that my son was gone."
"Son?" Magnus looked up. "Nay, surely! He must needs be removed, or he would do all to prevent his lord from reaching to his sister!"
Cordelia turned to gaze at Magnus with a musing frown.
"Even so," the knight agreed. "He was a goodly lad, and would ward his folk from every harm. Nay, surely he must needs have been banished or murdered—and I have no doubt that his soul ascended on the instant of his death, for he was indeed a goodly lad."
"And thy daughter's spirit saw thee not?"
"Nay; she is ever incoherent in her grief. I did seek revenge and, I hoped, arresting of the Count's misdeeds, by haunting him; yet I had died without great anger, for I'd had little cause ere then, and my spirit lacked its fullest strength; and for his part, the last Foxcourt cared only for himself and his fleshly pleasures, and perceived little enough of others' feeling, and certainly naught of ghosts."
"Too insensitive to be haunted," Rod said, with disgust.
" 'Tis even so." Suddenly, the ghost was kneeling, with a spectral clanking. "I beseech thee, as one father to another—aid me! Find some means of bringing my child to the rest she merits! Avenge her murder!"
Rod's face hardened. "I don't deal in revenge."
"Art thou a craven? Why, then, pox upon thee! May thou forever be…"
"Nay, hear my father," Gregory said quietly, and, for a wonder, the ghost stilled at his words. He frowned down at Gregory, then looked up at Rod. "What means he?"
"He knows why I won't try for revenge," Rod said. "It bogs you down, keeps you from going on to make the most of yourself. The goal here is to give your daughter's spirit eternal rest, and her chance to finish her journey on the road to Heaven. If, in the process, the final Count finds himself on the receiving end of some of the cruelty he wreaked while he was alive—well and good; but that's only a byproduct."
"Yet tell us this." Magnus stood, puzzled. "How may a ghost be hurt?"
The knight sighed and seemed to grow dimmer. "I know not.''
"The last Count is now but spirit," Gregory spoke up, "yet may feel spirits' pain. In truth, 'tis the agony of the soul that may yet redeem him, for if he comes to realize the pain that he hath caused, then may he yet repent."
"The hour for that is past," the ghost said. "He is dead." But he turned to Rod. "What manner of child is this, who doth speak with the wisdom of a bishop?"
Rod winced. "Please! We've already been through that career plan."
Far away, a rooster crowed.
The ghost's head lifted up. "The pregnant sky doth lighten with the dawn, and all the spectres of the night must slip away and hide themselves from light. I have overstayed my time. Farewell! Give aid to my child—and remember me!"
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."