Chapter Four - Clara

Eithne’s head was spinning as she allowed her captor – nay, her new master – to lead her away from the site of the tragedy. She wasn’t sure what to believe or not believe other than that Xander was a blackguard and certainly not to be trusted. As to the part her mother and brother had played in her father’s downfall, not to mention her own, she could only speculate.

She could believe such a thing of Clara but not Ephron, mean though he had sometimes been towards her.

The day was melding into dusk, but Eithne kept her head down and refused to look at the devastation all around. In her opinion the halter around her neck was unnecessary, but she supposed Xander was making a point. Whether she’d earned such punishment was a matter of opinion – and disagreement – between them.

All she’d said was he was an opportunist and a liar. Had she really disrespected him? Someone with his dubious moral code should have taken it as a compliment.

Xander picked up the pace seemingly at random, but it was only to pass the place where a small pocket of resistance was being quelled. Instead of heartening her, she felt only dismay as one by one those loyal to Ormond fell to arrow or sword. If only she had remembered to bring the dagger she sometimes wore strapped to her thigh. Not that she could have been of any great help to her countrymen, though it would have been good to try.

Recalling she had a tongue in her head, Eithne was not too proud to plead for mercy on their behalf. But her request came too late. It would probably have fallen on deaf ears in any case. Certainly her captor did not show any signs of stopping, either to intercede or congratulate. He seemed to be single-minded in his purpose and she didn’t have to think too hard to understand the reason why.

Would she be allowed to visit her bedchamber? If so, dare she retrieve the dagger so thoughtfully gifted her by her father when she turned sixteen?

Both things seemed unlikely. She could but ask.

There was a different feel about the castle. Gone was the red and white banner which denoted the sovereignty of her clan. A half dozen horn-helmed marauders were in the process of unfurling what she assumed to be the colours of Beeveland. No, that couldn’t be right. Hadn’t he said he’d been deposed? It was all such a muddle in her head.

The protocol of war was definitely beyond her.

Thinking about it, they were her mother’s colours. How could she have forgotten the Frankish ancestry? It was one reason she herself spoke two very different languages and perhaps explained why Xander’s accent hadn’t been off-putting, quite the contrary. Under any other circumstances she might have swooned.

Was he aware she knew more than a little of the Frankia tongue? That all depended on how much her mother had confided in him. Maybe it wouldn’t do to reveal that particular talent, even though most people struggled to master Ormond speak. It hadn’t seemed to faze Xander; presumably the amount of time he’d spent with Ephron had a bearing on that.

Something was off about the timescale and also the reason her elder brother was behind bars.

A couple of mounted Franks saluted Xander and he swept on with her, his boots ringing out loudly on the planks of the drawbridge. Eithne was aware of the difference in levels but missed her footing and fell awkwardly, landing crosswise so that her face was looking out over the moat. The paired swans were nowhere to be seen and she took that as an omen, though she could hear a frog’s distinctive ‘ribbit’ close by.

Xander yanked on the rope and she managed to scramble to her knees in an undignified manner just as a shout from above heralded the unfurling of yet another flag. Beside the orange and mauve pennant of the Sylvain clan, complete with pomegranate, now hung a yellow banner with a bull’s head at the centre and a diagonal green stripe going from top right to bottom left.

Her captor acknowledged the salutes of his men with a raised arm.

“For Fleur!” he shouted, to wild cheers.

Eithne decided it wouldn’t be prudent to ask. She hadn’t missed the significance of the bend sinister. Just as she’d suspected: he really was a bastard.

But why flaunt it so openly?

The answer came to her as he led her into the familiar courtyard with its fountain and covered walkway dotted with decorative pillars.

Because he wasn’t ashamed of who and what he was.

The notion frightened her so much she sucked in too much air and began to choke, uncontrollably, clawing at what now felt like a noose around her neck.

Xander’s reaction was lightning fast. Soon she was halter free, flat on her back and being encouraged to calm down by soothing words in his mother tongue.

“Not yet, my beauty,” was all she could make out before the roaring in her ears blotted out everything and she passed out.

Eithne came round in a chair in the solar just as the sun was starting to rise. After a few seconds of disorientation she recalled the distressing events which had taken place on the day of her birth and allowed herself to mourn.

“La, child, I have been so worried.” That tinkling voice could belong to only one woman.

“Mama?” she queried, even though she knew very well it was.

“Yes, dearling. And I have made for you a cadeau – a little gift.”

“Where are my clothes?” she asked, looking down at what appeared to be a cherry red shift which left her legs bare below the knee.

Clara Sylvain Lovell wrinkled her dainty nose. “I disposed of them, ma petite.” She held out a small box in her many-ringed hands. “Here. For you.”

The Cleopatra style necklace was beautiful; she’d never owned such a thing. Comprised of gold in three tiers it complemented her skin tone as she saw when she draped it over her bare arm.

“Thank you, Mama. You spoil me,” she said, feeling as if she had just woken up from a bad dream and wronged this bountiful vision in front of her.

The Queen Dowager was elegant and lovely in a silver gown which contrasted with the coils of dark hair piled on top of her head. A silk choker concealed the mole on her neck while her pale blue eyes were as hostile as Eithne remembered.

“Where’s Xander?” she asked, not really expecting an answer.

“Who?” Clara asked, startling her.

Had she imagined it all? Maybe she’d hit her head on that low beam beside her bed.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Can you help me with the clasp? I’m all fingers and thumbs.”

“I’ll summon your maid.” Clara rang a small bell, but long moments passed and there was no sign of Sarah. “Oh, silly me. She’s probably helping in the kitchen. All these extra mouths to feed. Men have such large appetites, don’t you agree?”

Eithne heard shrill screams coming from the passage followed by the sound of ripping material. She covered her ears, allowing the necklace to slip to the cold flagstones beneath her bare feet. That was when she realised her ankles were tied to the legs of the chair.

The persistent and prolonged sounds of terror came to an abrupt end as the unfortunate female was allowed to escape. Her attacker roared out a battle cry of a different kind as he gave chase.

Somehow she knew how it would end well before she heard the body bumping off the walls. There was a sickening crunch as it landed on the drawbridge and then all was quiet.

“Mama, what’s happening?” she cried.

Her mother held up a finger as if waiting for something. There was a loud splash and she realised the poor girl had most likely been dumped into the moat.

Clara came closer, a strange smile on her face as she stooped to pat Eithne’s cheek.

“Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “I’ll get you another maid.”