Eighteen

And none were found as the month came to an end, and the day of the historical pageant on Lindisfarne arrived, with scudding clouds and breezes that held a taste of autumn. The last of August was near the turn of the season this far north, and the occasional sharp gust foreshadowed winter storms.

The pageant now represented a running dispute for the newly married pair. Roger continued to argue that they should withdraw. But Fenella insisted that they not be intimidated into hiding. They would be surrounded by friends and members of their household. No one would dare shoot arrows into a crowd, and anyone who tried would be seen and captured at once. Her arm was much better. And they had promised to be a part of this neighborhood effort. In the end, Roger gave in. But he arranged to post a party of men from his estate to watch for threats.

The Chatton household set out early, so that all those who had roles would be in place well before time. The timing of the pageant had been arranged around the tides that could make passage to the island treacherous, allowing everyone to come and then go at the lowest ebb. Those attending expected to make a day of it, and people had come from far away to see the pageant. Many had employed small boats, Roger noticed as they arrived, which would free them from the demands of the sea.

They found everything arranged around a wall of the ruined priory on Lindisfarne Island. One side of the line of vacant stone arches was set aside for spectators. Macklin and Roger’s mother staked out a perfect spot for viewing, and the servants who’d come along furnished it with rugs and chairs, hampers of food and sunshades.

The performers were gathering on the other side of the ruined wall, where a large tent had been set up to serve as dressing room. Mrs. Thorpe was received with acclaim and led away to her own curtained corner. The others were directed to the separate areas for men and women to put on their costumes.

As Fenella donned the long skirt, heavy tunic, and cloth headdress that marked her as a Saxon matron, she wondered about the whereabouts of her attacker. Was the sneaking Maid Marian nearby? It was lowering to think the archer might be lurking in the shadows, burning with inexplicable malice. Not because she feared another assault. Fenella truly did not believe that would happen here, where the woman would be caught at once. She’d been so careful to avoid exposure. It was the idea of hatred aimed in her direction, perhaps by someone she knew, that depressed her spirits. Adjusting the last details of her costume, she determined to shake the feeling off.

The series of scenes and tableaus began with establishment of the religious center on the island many centuries ago. John’s part came early, and he seemed very much to enjoy being slathered with mud from head to toe. He received the homily from St. Cuthbert with commendable humility, as well as the bucket of water poured over his head—partly hygienic and partly baptismal. When his bit was finished, however, he veered into the audience. As people edged away from his filthy, dripping figure, he rushed up to Wrayle and threw his arms around the valet.

He might have been a child overwhelmed by the attention and seeking comfort. Indeed, when Wrayle pushed him away with a disgusted exclamation, some parents in the crowd frowned. But Fenella suspected that this was a prank her nephew and Tom had planned to pay Wrayle back for some of his spite. When she glimpsed Tom’s smirk, nearly hidden by the hood of his costume, she was certain. And she couldn’t say that Wrayle didn’t deserve it. Thwarted by William’s continual presence, Wrayle had been doing all he could to make John’s stay at Chatton Castle a trial.

The day progressed, and history moved forward, the scenes shifting smoothly from arch to arch.

The Viking Age came fairly soon, rife with shouting men waving swords and axes. Fenella wielded her broom with enthusiasm and was carried off by her dear, familiar marauder. Their scene was well received, with cheers and a few hoots and whistles. Out of sight of the crowd they laughed together, in relief that it was done and that no intrusion had marred the occasion.

Monks wound through the arches, chanting. A melee with sword and axes was roundly cheered. A speech very like a sermon was not. The Normans arrived and recited bits of local history. Henry VIII’s troops came to abolish the monastery and make it into a naval store before building a castle. After that it was chiefly the Scots and the English grappling over the border. Both sides had partisans in the audience.

Finally, as the sun neared the horizon, it was time for Mrs. Thorpe’s contribution. Her recitation was not strictly chronological, as Macbeth had lived in the eleventh century. She came last because everyone had envisioned her recitation as the crowning moment of the show, a professional performance to cap the sprawling drama. Fenella found a good spot to listen at the far side of the audience just under one of the arches. She was still in her costume, awaiting the end of the pageant when all of them were to line up and be acknowledged together. Roger, sitting with Macklin and his mother, beckoned, but Fenella stayed where she was.

A deep drumbeat began out of sight. The sound gradually drew the attention of the crowd. There was a pause, building anticipation. Then Mrs. Thorpe drifted into a vacant, candlelit archway like a phantom. She wore a simple black gown and a peaked headdress. Such was the power of her presence that stillness spread out from her position over all the people present. Only when all was quiet and every eye had turned to her did she speak, in a ringing voice that reached the far edges of the gathering.

“The raven himself is hoarse

That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan

Under my battlements. Come, you spirits

That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,

And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full

Of direst cruelty! Make thick my blood;”

Fenella was transfixed. The power of Mrs. Thorpe’s voice and expression was undeniable. One couldn’t look away. Her gestures were small and subtle, but riveting. She commanded attention.

“Stop up the access and passage to remorse,

That no compunctious visitings of nature

Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between

The effect and it! Come to my woman’s breasts,

And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers,

Wherever in your sightless substances

You wait on nature’s mischief!”

“Yes, exactly that,” hissed a woman’s voice in Fenella’s ear. A loop of thick cord fell over Fenella’s face and down around her neck, quickly tightening until it was painful. The cloaked and hooded figure beside her leaned close and pressed the barrel of a pistol into her side. Fenella had thought this person was part of the pageant, one of her fellow actors. Now, the cord was jerked, forcing Fenella to move out from under the arch into the gathering darkness behind the ruined wall.

The cord dug into her neck, choking her. Fenella tried to get her fingers under it and pull it loose. But the cord was too tight. The pistol’s barrel came up and banged against her temple, leaving her momentarily dazed. Her captor dragged at the cord again. Fenella gagged and stumbled along in her grasp as Mrs. Thorpe continued.

“Come, thick night,

And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,

That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,

Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,

To cry ‘Hold, hold!’”

“Oh yes, a woman can kill,” her captor muttered as she forced Fenella along. “You know it. You lured my poor gentle daughter out into a storm so that you could take her place.”

“Daughter?” Fenella tried to say. It came out as a croak. She couldn’t speak.

“Inflammation of the lungs,” the woman growled, jerking on the loop of cord. “A broken heart more like.”

Could this be Mrs. Crenshaw? What was Arabella’s mother doing here? And what was she doing?

“She wrote me that you were her friend, you know. ‘I’ve found one friend here,’ she said. Poor deceived lamb.” She stumbled, and the cord loosened a bit.

“I did try to be her friend,” Fenella managed, her voice barely above a croak. “I tried to keep her from riding out that day.”

The pistol struck her again, painfully, as the cord tightened. “Don’t give me your lies! My cousin heard Chatton say it, out loud at White’s club. Thought you’d rid yourself of my Arabella and take him for yourself, but I’ll see that ended tonight.”

They’d come to a dip in the ground, well past the end of the ruined arches. Fenella could hear the sea streaming over pebbles nearby. Mrs. Crenshaw jerked at her, and they both nearly fell. But she recovered and pulled Fenella downhill.

Fenella clawed at the cord and stumbled over rocks. Water poured over her ankles. And still her captor yanked her on. Fenella felt a trickle of blood where the cord had cut into her neck.

At last, when a larger wave made her captor sway, Fenella got hold of the cord and managed to loosen it. “Help!” she cried. Her voice cracked. She doubted it could be heard over the sound of the surf.

Mrs. Crenshaw hit Fenella with the pistol again, a ringing blow that left her reeling. Grasping Fenella’s tunic with her free hand, she dragged her into the sea, releasing the cord for a moment.

“The tide hasn’t gone out,” Fenella croaked. “We can’t leave the island now.”

“Leave?” The older woman’s laugh was grating. “Depends on what you mean by that.” She wound her free hand in Fenella’s hair and twisted as the waves surged around their knees.

“We’ll both go under.”

“You think I care if I die?” The woman’s eyes burned into hers as she tightened the cord again. “I deserve to die! Arabella was my only child, my darling, and I wanted a grand title for her. And so I thrust her into this terrible place of plotting killers.”

She thrust her face closer. It was twisted with hate. “My poor mite! She wanted to marry a mere mister, and I dissuaded her. Pointed out the young man’s faults, said her papa would cut her off, described the perils of poverty as if they’d be living in a hovel. As if he didn’t have a penny when he was well enough to pass.”

Fenella felt even sorrier for Arabella, that she’d been subjected to this woman’s manipulations. And then she concentrated on getting the cord off her neck, while Mrs. Crenshaw was distracted by her remorse.

“If I’d left well enough alone, my baby would be alive now. Living near London! I might have grandchildren.”

Fenella dug her fingernails under the cord and pulled with all her strength. She panted and strained, and at last the cord eased. With one sudden twist, she yanked it out and up and tossed the wretched thing into the sea. Her captor screeched and twisted her free hand in Fenella’s hair.

“You don’t know—” began Fenella. She put a hand to her hair, trying to pull free. Her eyes watered with the pain.

“Don’t speak to me!” Mrs. Crenshaw hit her again with the pistol, so hard Fenella hoped it would go off and attract others. But it did not. “I may have made a mistake,” her captor continued. “But you killed her.”

“No.” Her denial had no effect. Fenella doubted the other woman heard.

“I won’t see that worm Chatton happy while Arabella lies cold in her grave! They say he cares for you. Now he’ll see what it feels like to lose someone he loves.”

Fenella’s gown dragged at her, growing heavier with each wave that splashed over them. She clawed at the other woman and struggled to break her grip.

“What are you doing?” called a ringing voice from the shore behind them. Mrs. Thorpe stood there, staring.

“Get help!” answered Fenella. Her voice, still affected by the maltreatment of her throat, didn’t carry over the sound of the sea.

But Mrs. Thorpe could see what was needed. “Help!” she cried much louder.

Mrs. Crenshaw shrieked and threw the pistol. It spun through the air and struck Mrs. Thorpe on the temple. She stumbled to the ground.

Then, with a grin worthy of a corpse, Mrs. Crenshaw threw both arms around Fenella and fell backward into the sea.

Cold water rushed over Fenella’s chest and face, tried to go up her nose. The sudden immersion took her breath away. A receding wave pulled them away from the island. Mrs. Crenshaw let it, her grip frighteningly strong.

Fenella kicked and writhed. She managed to get her head above water and drew in a deep breath. They were already yards from shore. The ebbing tide was carrying them out with ominous power. She shoved with all her strength in the cold water, raising her knees and using her legs as well as her arms. Finally, she escaped the gripping hands. Arabella’s mother lunged for her. Fenella lurched away. And then they were separated. She let the current pull her away from her attacker. In only a few minutes, Mrs. Crenshaw was well out of reach, and then she was gone, hidden by the waves’ chop.

Fenella was free! But her heavy clothes were a death trap, a sodden weight dragging her down. She pulled her knees up again and dragged the sodden tunic up over her hips. It resisted, and a new wave swept over her, filling her mouth with seawater and turning her head over heels. She gagged, spit, and managed another lungful of air.

Wriggling, tearing, she slipped out of the tunic. The fastenings of her skirt resisted, but finally she undid them and shoved the swath of wool down and away. It swirled in a small whirlpool and then was sucked away as if by the inhalation of a giant.

Fenella kicked off her shoes. She was lighter now, in her shift. It was possible to swim. But she was also colder. The water sucked the heat from her body. She raised her head to get her bearings. She was well away from the island and rapidly being borne farther, out to sea, toward death. She saw no sign of Arabella’s mother.

The strength of the frigid current was terrifying. It was like being pulled along by a racing carriage. She couldn’t fight it. No one could have. Trying to swim against the tide would be futile. But Fenella had heard local fishermen discuss what to do if they fell from their boats into a riptide. She bobbed up again to judge the angle of the shore and started paddling slantwise, partly using the strength of the sea to move across the direction of the current.

* * *

Roger moved through the pageant crowd, growing increasingly frantic. Fenella hadn’t appeared for the ending of the performance when they were all supposed to take a bow. And now she didn’t seem to be anywhere in this infuriating mass of people sitting, chattering, eating, and drinking. She had to be here, and yet he couldn’t find her. The fear that had been with him since she was shot roared to life.

Cries from the dimness behind the arches set him running. He found three men bending over a woman on the ground. He rushed to join them and found not Fenella but Mrs. Thorpe being helped to her feet, holding a hand to her brow. “She threw that pistol at me,” the actress said, pointing to a weapon on the earth. “And hit me, too, which is quite difficult.”

Macklin rushed up with several others. “What’s happened?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”

“Not badly,” replied Mrs. Thorpe. “I’ll have a bruise.” Before Roger could consign her bruise to perdition, she added, “Someone, a woman, pulled Lady Chatton into the sea.”

“What?” Torn between learning more and rushing into the water, Roger was frozen.

“She had hold of her hair. I saw her hit Lady Chatton with the pistol, too.” Mrs. Thorpe watched as one of the men bent to pick up a gun. “She wore a hooded cloak, so I couldn’t see her face. I think she must have been mad.”

“Maid Marian,” said Roger. He didn’t care that all of them turned to stare at him. “I begged Fenella not to come tonight. But she wouldn’t listen.” He ran to the water and waded in, scanning the darkening sea, looking for any sign of swimmers.

Footsteps splashed behind him. “Which way does the current run?” asked Macklin.

“Out,” said Roger, straining, examining every wave crest, every irregularity in the surface. “Like a millrace at this point in the tide. To open water, and Denmark, eventually.” He saw nothing. Despair threatened to engulf him.

“Not directly,” said the older man. “We saw that when the boys came up here. There are crosscurrents and rips.” He turned toward shore, calling, “Fetch boats.”

In a short time, a flotilla of volunteers had rowed out to search for Fenella, pulling against the draw of the sea.

Sometime later, there were shouts from one of the little vessels, indicating that they’d found a body. Roger plunged into shock and terror as he helped propel his boat over to it. But when they reached it, he discovered that the sodden bundle they’d pulled from the water wasn’t Fenella. Relief warred with horror and astonishment as he gaped at the pale face and recognized Arabella’s mother.

The boat holding her moved toward shore. His own began to follow. “What are you doing?” Roger demanded. “We have to keep searching.”

“It’s grown too dark, my lord,” said the boat’s owner. “We can’t see properly. Might miss something. We’ll wait and head back out at first light.”

“Lend me the boat,” said Roger. “I’ll keep going.”

But when they reached the island, all the mariners held the same opinion. It was no use going on in the dark. No one said that by this time the cold water would have sapped a swimmer’s strength and most likely pulled her down. They didn’t have to. Roger knew it. He’d lived his life by the North Sea. These waters were unforgiving.

They carried Mrs. Crenshaw up to the tent and laid her body on a rug. Roger, his mother, and Macklin joined the others standing over her. “What was she doing here?” said Roger’s mother.

“Can she have been the archer?” asked Macklin. “Maid Marian?” His tone was dubious. The soaked middle-aged woman before them didn’t look adventurous.

“Yes.” Desolation dragged at every word Roger spoke. “She was a keen archer as a girl. Arabella mentioned it once. I’d forgotten. Her mother wanted her to learn, but she didn’t care to.” He ought to have remembered. He ought to have suspected. But how could he have imagined Mrs. Crenshaw would do such a thing? She must have gone mad.

“But,” began his mother. “Why?”

“She blamed me for Arabella’s death,” Roger said leadenly. “And I…like a damned fool, I blamed Fenella. This was revenge. On her. On me. I’ve done this.”

“No, you have not,” said Macklin. He pointed at the dead woman. “She did it, and no one else.”

“She promoted your marriage,” said Roger’s mother. “Arranged it even, you told me.”

It was true. Roger’s guilt lifted just slightly. He would not have married Arabella, and she would not have died, perhaps, if Mrs. Crenshaw hadn’t pushed the match. She had much to answer for, wherever she might be now. Then this momentary feeling of respite collapsed. Fenella was gone. Just when he’d found her after so many years, he’d lost her again. And he hadn’t told her he loved her. That cut so deeply that he nearly bent double with regret. He’d meant to. He’d tried to. But his wretched tongue had betrayed him yet again, and so she’d never heard him tell her how very much he cared. If he could be given the chance—Roger prayed for a chance—he would say it every day, every hour for the rest of his life.

They went out to a murmuring, firelit island. Groups of people stood or sat exchanging wild stories about what had happened when they had no actual idea. What was he going to do? Roger wondered. How was he going to live now?

He wanted to snatch up a claymore and rage against an enemy, wild and invincible as a berserker. But there was no one to fight. And so little grounds for hope.