Page 62 of Fletcher

A watcher’s horn blasted three times, warning of an attack. As they stared at each other a tremendous crash from below resounded through the stronghold, startling them both, and then Duncan ran with Shaw in the direction of the sound. As they reached the great hall, from which clouds of dust billowed out, they nearly collided with Nyall, the laird and his wife.

“Guards,” the captain shouted, drawing his sword. “Ready your blades.”

“Hold.” The laird peered at two figures emerging from the cloud of debris, both covered in mortar dust and bits of shingles. “Why, ’tis Fletcher and Lark.”

Duncan pushed men out of his way to reach the pair, who looked as if they’d crashed through the ceiling. Then he glanced up and saw a huge hole in the roof of the hall.

“Sorry,” Lark said, coughing and waving her hand in front of her face. “I tried to boost us over the mist barrier, and the ring and the shield enchantment sort of collided, and then I don’t remember much until we crashed into the hall.”

Covered in just as much dust and debris as Lark, Fletcher circled her waist with an arm and took her hand. But then he stopped, staring down at it. “The ring, ’tis gone.”

Lark held out her hand and then looked up at the hole in the roof. “Did it disappear when it brought us through the enchantment?”

Seeing the dried blood on her face made Duncan gesture at Fletcher. “Both of you, come with me.”

Fletcher stood in the doorway and watched as Duncan finished bandaging Lark’s head. She looked adorably grubby, and he looked forward to washing her clean when they went back to his bed chamber. He heard the laird clear his throat behind him, and closed the door before he regarded his eldest brother.

“The watchers reported how far they saw you and Lark fall,” Connal said. “Even you couldnae survive such a plummet.”

“I reckon Lady Joana’s ring and our sire’s magic shielded us.” He glanced down the passage to assure they were alone before he told him the rest. “Lark used her boon to lift us from the vessel, but instead of landing us on Ronalsee she hurled us far up into the clouds, where the Cait Sith couldnae see us. There we floated until we saw them sail out of sight before she attempted take us to Caladh.”

Duncan opened the door and glared at both of them. “You both need come in here and see the lady.”

Fletcher hurried inside, stopping short as he saw Lark calmly braiding her hair back from her face. The wound on her head had vanished, as had all the cuts and scrapes she’d received from plunging through the hall ceiling.

She smiled at him. “I think the ring did more than heal me.”

Fletcher exchanged a look with the laird before he said, “Lass, fancy a deep swim with me?”

Chapter Twenty

After Idonea’s funeral the next day, when Duncan asked Fletcher if they could have a word in private, Lark went up to the sewing room to check if any work remained to be finished. What she really needed was some time alone to grieve the loss of her friend. She still didn’t understand why Idonea had hidden her condition from everyone. Although Duncan might not have been able to save her, at least knowing she was getting worse would have given him a chance to try.

Something was wrong with Duncan, too. Whenever he saw Shaw he looked like he wanted to kill him.

The room seemed especially quiet as she walked around and checked the garments on the dress forms, all of which had been completed. She saw how Idonea’s stitching had gone from bad to worse on a few, and made a pile of them to work on. She then gathered up the seamstress’s old, weathered tools, placing them in a box, and took that into the adjoining room that she had used as a bed chamber. Along with a dozen trunks she had a big cabinet, which Lark assumed served as a closet. She’d keep them in there, and take them out to use them now and then as a way of remembering her friend.

When she opened the cabinet, she found it jammed with dozens of garments she’d never before seen, all hung with linen wraps that looked yellowed.

Lark set aside the box and removed the wrapping from one elaborately-embroidered dress made of thin blue silk. From the style it seemed to be a wedding gown, but the fabric was so old it had cracked like porcelain. Where she touched it, the silk shattered, and as she took one hand away, some pieces of it fluttered to the floor. As old as it appeared, it showed no signs of ever being worn. She carried it over to the work table by the window, and once she spread it out examined the embroidery, which showed a backward F stitched in golden thread with a single straight line of red silk crossed over it.

Leaving the gown on the table, Lark returned to the cabinet and pulled out more of the garments. Each one had been made from the finest of fabrics, and yet appeared never to have been worn. Dry rot had left nearly all of them unwearable, but each one bore the same strange embroidery.

“I meant take those and burn them today,” Meg said from the doorway.

She turned around to frown at her. “You knew about these gowns?”

The maid nodded and came inside, closing the door. “The trunks, they’re filled with others, and shifts and drawers like a lass should wear for a lover. Idonea made them for herself, a long time ago. Lady Joana discovered the gowns when she came here for some thread, and told me of them, but bid me never speak of such.”

None of that made any sense to her. “Why would she make all these garments and then not wear them?”

“’Twas her habiliment of hope, Lady Joana called them.” Meg came over and picked up the sleeve of the crumbling blue silk dress, running a fingertip over the embroidery. “More like hopeless love, ’twould seem.”

“The entwined monograms,” Lark murmured, and pressed a hand to her mouth as she realized what they meant. “F for Fletcher, I for Idonea.”

“Aye.” The maid dropped the sleeve and brushed some bits of shattered silk from her hands. “She loved the seneschal, and wished wed him. He never saw her devotion as anything more than loyalty from a vassal. So she went on sewing gowns to wear for him as his wife, even after she married that carpenter lad.”

“And then she couldn’t wear them.” Lark remembered how carefully she had made the gown for her wedding with Lawrence, pouring all her hopes and dreams into every stitch. “Why didn’t she ever tell Fletcher about this?”