The Bride Of Windermere

The name “Clarisse” shot through her like an arrow. What was it Maggie had said about her?

Wolf didn’t detect a bit of emotion from his cousin when he spoke of his dead wife. In fact, Philip seemed altogether too enthralled by Lady Kathryn, and Wolf didn’t care much for it. Any normal man would have been able to produce at least some outward sign of grief for the young wife who’d been dead a mere six months. Instead, Philip hung on Kathryn’s every word, and hadn’t yet let go of her hand.

“How dreadful for you, my lord,” Kathryn said, recovering herself. “Was it sudden?”

The trenchers were finally brought to table as well as trays of meat and fowl. Everyone started to eat, forcing Philip to stop touching Lady Kathryn. Wolf noticed the look of concern in Kathryn’s eyes over the bereavement of the earl. He knew she couldn’t possibly understand Philip’s true character on first meeting, but Wolf found her sympathy for Philip irritating, regardless.

“No,” Philip answered Kit. “My wife had been ill for some months... A stomach malady.” He waved the meaty rib of beef he was holding as if to dismiss the topic. Kit thought the earl’s attitude too callous. She knew little of the world beyond Somerton, but she felt certain that some expression of sorrow would have been appropriate. There was no doubt in her mind that the Earl of Windermere was a cold man, and his strangeness caused a slight furrowing of her brow. She could not know that her expression would be interpreted as sympathetic rather than simply puzzled.

Philip paid almost exclusive attention to Lady Kathryn and that fact was remarked upon by many of the guests at the tables nearby. Lady Kathryn’s bruised eye was duly noted, though it was said she’d suffered some mishap prior to setting out from her home in Northumberland. No one knew quite why she was traveling to London or exactly what her relationship was with King Henry, though speculation was rife that the king had made her his ward and she was under his protection. They also said he would likely choose a husband for her.

Wolf said nothing to quell any of the rumors regarding Kathryn, since he himself had no idea why she’d been summoned to court. Besides, Wolf decided the rumors and theories would be to her benefit. He suspected the less anyone knew for certain about her—especially Philip—the better.

Kit was exhausted when Philip finally walked her to her chambers. She wanted nothing more than for the clinging, lecherous nobleman to release her arm and let her enter her room. He had dogged her all evening and now, his face was close to hers and his breath reeked of old ale.

Because she was a guest in his home and since she’d promised Bridget to behave, Kit did not trounce on his foot or jab her knee into his groin when he slid a wayward arm around her waist and flattened his sweaty hand across her buttock. “Such a sweet little morsel...” he muttered, even though Kit tried to move away.

“My lord, release me. Now.”

“You please me, Kathryn,” Philip drawled. “Young, tempting. What ruse must I use to lure you—”

Kit slapped his hand away and was considering doing worse harm when Sir Gerhart suddenly appeared in the corridor, carrying one candle and staggering slightly, singing a bawdy little tune under his breath. He came toward them, lost his balance and knocked into the earl’s shoulder. Kit was surprised by his awkwardness, for though he was a large man, she’d noticed that he always moved with agility and purpose.

“So sorry, m’lord,” Gerhart slurred. “Wunnerful wine, marveloush party.”

“Back off, ungainly oaf!”

“Please, my lord,” Kit stepped between the two men before the earl was able to draw his dagger. It wouldn’t do to have the two fighting in the gallery outside her room. Nearly in a panic and hardly able to think what she should do next to appease the earl’s unreasonable temper, Kit spoke in her best conciliatory tone. “My escort has...has...merely overindulged in your good wine...and...your hospitality. Allow me to help him to his chambers... er... so he does not further embarrass our party.”

She took the candle from Gerhart and pulled at his arm, moving him away from the earl. “Come along, sir knight,” she said, then turned to Philip. “Good night, my lord.” With that, she put her arm around Gerhart’s waist to support his drunken frame and led him down the hall. A quick glance behind her verified, to her immense relief, that Philip was not following. “Pompous ass...” she muttered.

Wolf was really too large for her to support much longer. His chamber would have to be nearby or there would be no choice but to let him crash to the floor right there in the gallery. “Which is the door to your room, Gerhart?”

“This one... No, p’rhaps...down here a bit...” He was leaning too heavily on her. They were both going to fall. “You smell like roses again, Sprout,” he said, weaving slightly. Kit was surprised he’d noticed. She always bathed with

rose-scented soap, but thought it was too subtle to be noticed by anyone but herself.

“Here. This is it.” He staggered into a door which swung into the room under his weight. By some miracle, neither one of them fell. Kit now found herself with Gerhart’s arm around her rather than her arm around his waist where she distinctly remembered having placed it. In his drunken state, he had somehow succeeded in keeping her from falling. He was holding her quite closely now, and Kit’s breath quickened. His head moved down, bringing his lips precariously close to hers, nearly touching, and Kit had no control over her body’s traitorous response to him. She knew it was insane, but she yearned for the touch of his lips again, wanted to feel—

A drop of hot wax from the candle hit her hand, and Kit jumped. She came to her senses and pulled away from him at once.

“Can you manage now, or should I call for someone to help?” she asked, somewhat breathlessly.

“Why would I need help?” he asked, all traces of drunken speech remarkably absent.

“Why would...? You’re not drunk at all, are you?” she asked, seeing the amusement in his eyes and realizing that he had been toying with her.

“Of course not, Sprout. I never drink too much,” he said, puzzled by his own behavior. He had never feigned drunkenness before, nor any other condition. Wolf told himself that he’d felt compelled to follow when Philip had taken Kit from the hall only because it was his sworn duty to protect her. And after witnessing his cousin’s lecherous looks at supper, he didn’t trust that the lady would be safe with him alone in the dark gallery.

“Why, you... you... deceitful lout!” Kit cried. “Roses indeed!” She looked for something to throw at him, but seeing nothing readily at hand, Kit whirled about and tore out of his chamber, leaving him in darkness.

When she reached her room, Kit closed the door more gently than she would have liked, in deference to Bridget, who was sleeping. Her blood was pounding in her ears. Kit wasn’t sure if her upset was from anger, annoyance or fear of what might have happened if she’d let Wolf kiss her. Would he have recognized her as the woman at the lake from one kiss?

Standing there in the gloom, her distress simmered, but her worried lips gave way to a slow smile as she thought of Wolf feigning inebriation. The act had been contrived entirely for her benefit. If not for Wolfs interference in the corridor, Kit would either have had to submit to the earl or do something equally embarrassing. Neither option was acceptable, and Wolf had saved her from having to make the choice. She grinned. His method of rescue had been perfect Perhaps he wasn’t totally lacking a sense of humor.

Kit pulled off her concealing veil and wondered if he had merely played the diplomat, or had the sight of the earl pawing at her given him the impetus to intervene? The thought intrigued her as she sat down on the bed next to Bridget and felt her fevered forehead. No one had ever seen fit to rescue her before. Not even Rupert.

The fire in the grate had all but died as Kit undressed by candlelight and slipped into a thin white gown. Though the chamber was deep in shadows, Kit knew there was a small bed in the far corner. She intended to spend the night there so as not to disturb Bridget’s sleep. As she lifted the candle and turned, a strange sound came to her ears from the depths of the shadows. Kit stood still to listen for it again. Finally, she heard a voice speaking in a harsh, laughing whisper. It was an eerie sound.

“The rooster’s found another pretty little hen to decorate his roost!” Kit raised the candle a bit in order to better illuminate the room. A deeper shadow moved in front of the fire, and Kit knew the speaker was there. Too frightened to approach the apparition, she set down the candle and went back to the bed where Bridget lay. Her knife was concealed under the extra pillow. She didn’t know what the intruder wanted, but Kit planned to protect herself and Bridget.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“Methinks the wolf this time will thwart our bird and serve him up for supper.”

Bridget moaned a little in her sleep, the sound startling Kit nearly out of her skin.

“You speak nonsense! Come into the light and let me see you.” The last thing she really wanted was to see whatever demon was speaking, but Kit bolstered her courage and demanded a confrontation.

The little bent-over figure moved slowly away from the fire and approached the chest where Kit had set the candle. When finally it stopped near the light, it turned. Kit saw it was nothing but an old woman, bent by a hump on her back, and cloaked in some coarse, dark cloth.

“Ahh! ’Twill be good to see him brought low!” the woman clapped her hands in glee.

“Who are you?” Kit whispered again.

“I?” She looked incredulously at Kit, unable to believe that anyone might not know her. “I am the Countess of Windermere.” She threw her head back and laughed silently. It was a bizarre laugh causing chills to move down Kit’s back as she watched the wretched old thing going through the motions of laughter with no sound.

“I...I thought the Countess...died last spring... You are not, you could not be her...her ghost? Could you?”

More infernal laughter. Kit trembled, certain she was poor Clarisse’s ghost.

“Agatha.”

“What?” Kit whispered, completely confused now.

“I! Me! I am Agatha. Wife of Clarence the Usurper.”

“Who is Clarence?” Kit asked, now totally confused.

“Clarence was the father of the peacock who now struts about Windermere Castle. Philip, he is called.”

The riddles were giving Kit a headache, and she was beginning to suspect that this Agatha was no more an apparition than Bridget.

“What do you want?”

“Take care. He needs a new hen to breed him some chicks. The last could give him no brood.”

“I don’t understand you! Can you not speak plainly?”