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Copyright© 2016 Nicky Peacock
ISBN: 978-1-77233-747-1
Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs
Editor: JS Cook
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WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
For everyone who fights to be who they want to be...whether they win or lose in the end.
TRAITORS’ GATE
Battle of the Undead: prequel
Nicky Peacock
Copyright © 2016
Chapter One
England 1483
“Zut!” I yell, grabbing my head as it bounces off the carriage ceiling.
My new governess, Mistress Black, raises an eyebrow at me. “Lucinda, it is unladylike to swear.”
“Not even in French?”
“Especially not in French!” She has a wild look in her eyes that I don’t trust, although to be fair her eyes are the least of my worries. I am back in my home country after spending three years in France, and despite still not being completely fluent in the language, I have picked up an impressive array of curse words. Ms. Black had met me at the docks. I fear she had taken one look at my curvy figure and unruly blond hair and thought me totally unworthy of her time, let alone her words. We’d spent the last three hours bobbing along in my father’s carriage in prolonged periods of worrisome silence. Every conversation I had begun she had abruptly ended with a sly comment or a wave of her gloved hand. I should be happy that I’m back home—Lord knows I didn’t want to go to school overseas—but I’d grown to love the place and the people, oh and the food. The flavors and smells of sweet breads, buttery pastries and fondant filled fanciful cakes, all of them just as delicious in appearance as in taste… I’d really like to indulge with some of my raisin pastries right now, the ones I’d secreted in my purse but I dare not incur the wrath of Mistress. Black, who is still failing to hide her disappointment that I’m not some well-mannered debutant waif.
“I smell cakes,” she says, sniffing the air.
I casually wrap my pastries up tighter, resigning myself that I’ll have to wait until we are at Father’s house before I can safely undress them and let my senses melt into their sweet, buttery loveliness…no, I’m having one now. I point to a random tree out of the carriage window. Mistress Black’s intense gaze follows my finger. Quickly I bend and eat part of the pastry. It crumbles into my mouth and I hide my chewing by lifting my purse slightly, to shield me from Mistress Black’s withering stare. Oh, I hope the kitchen staff remember me and let me bake some more when I get home.
The carriage stumbles over a rocky part of road and my purse leaps out of my hand. Mistress Black sees everything.
“Lucinda Delacourt! Your father is going to be bitterly disappointed in you.”
I don’t even bother finishing my mouthful of food. “That’s nothing new to me.”
Mistress Black’s face turns from indignant self-righteousness to absolute horror. She bends down and picks up my purse and thrusts it back into my hand. I drop it to my side to fully expose my now open-mouthed chewing. With each movement, I stretch my jaw wide, making sure she can smell the sugared raisins while I finish the rest of my delicious pastry.
Another hour crawls by and I begin to recognize the scenery slipping past the window. The smells of the countryside are now all around us, a pungent mix of animals and flowers. I take in a deep breath and smile. I’m home.
“My, my, what a horrible smell!” Mistress Black pulls out a handkerchief and a small bottle of oil. She drips the oil onto the material. It’s lavender; she plunges her long thin nose into it, like a pig at a trough, and breathes deeply. I smile. I love the smell of lavender and it only adds to my scent sensation of coming home.
As we near the house, my eyes are drawn to our nearest neighbor, Ravenglass Manor. The once majestic gothic building is now partly marred by black soot and half of its walls are spilling their bricks across its burnt landscape.
“What happened at Ravenglass?” I ask.
“Ladies do not gossip.”
“Of course we do, it’s all we do.” Mistress Black stares at me. “This is my home, I need to know. I used to spend time with Christian Ravenglass when I was a little girl, please.”
“Well, only because it is something you should never mention again.”
“What do you mean? The Ravenglass family are our friends, Christian fights for the White Rose just like my family…”
“Not any more. Christian is a traitor. Ravenglass was burned for it.”
“Burned by whom?”
“Your father.”
Chapter Two
Thomas Delacourt is a terrible man; he is cold and devious and I do not trust him, but he is the only parent I have left.
He’s not waiting at the front of the house for my arrival, but there are five footman and several maids ready to greet me. I climb out of the carriage and brush off the pastry crumbs from my dress. Mistress Black thrusts her bag at the nearest servant and strides off into the house.
I look at the welcome party. I remember Mistress Leighton the cook. I’m so happy to see she’s still here that I lurch forward and embrace her. The tight lacing on my cotehardie digs into me, but I don’t care. She looks around us for a moment, then hugs me back.
“Welcome home, poppet,” she whispers.
Gordons, whom I also remember, grins at me. He was just a footman when I left, but he now wears the livery of head butler. I’m not silly enough to hug him, but I do shake his hand vigorously, which makes the maids laugh
“Jolly good to see you, Lady Lucinda. You look beautiful, and you smell like,” he leans forward and sniffs me, “pastry.”
I blush and reach into my purse to retrieve what are left of my pastries. I hand them to Mistress Leighton.
“I baked them before I left.”
Mistress Leighton quickly hides the cakes in her apron, “We have a lot of catching up to do,” she says with a wink.
I rush into my childhood home, but instead of the resurrection of warm memories, I find it familiar yet cold. The fire in the great hall isn’t lit and it’s much darker than I remember. My homecoming is less than spectacular and part of me wants nothing more than to climb into that carriage and trundle off back to France. But I know that I can’t.
Gordons coughs. I hadn’t even heard him approach.
“Your father wishes to see you now, Lady Lucinda.”
I quickly check my reflection in the hall mirror: my hair is sticking out at unfavorable angles, and there’s a spot of jam still clinging to my bottom lip; has that been there since the coach? I lick it off, then smooth down my hair as best I can.
There are only thirty steps between the hall and my father’s study. I count them off in my head, just like I used to do when I was little. When I reach the door I knock. There is no answer. I knock again. No answer. I know father is inside. His study is his lair; he only ever ventures between it, his bedroom, and the dining room. I open the door and walk in.
Father is sitting behind his desk. He’s thinner in the face than what I remember, not as broad. There is also a speckle of grey dusting his dark hair. He must feel my eyes on him, as he looks up at me.
“You just barge in here, not even a knock?” he yells.
“I knocked twic
e, father.”
“Talking back. God’s bones what did I pay those fancy French tutors for?”
There is no way for me to win this argument. I’m not sure what I had expected, that three years of absence would have mellowed him? That he would have charged over to me and given me a hug, promising me that I’d never leave his side again? I’m a fool.
The silence between us has now stretched so far it’s about to snap. So I curtsy.
His nose twitches. “Go to your room. We’ll speak at dinner.”
I keep my eyes to the floor as I back out of his study. When the door shuts behind me I release a breath I was holding. I run up the stairs to my old room, slam the door behind me and fall onto my bed. I scratch at my overgown till I loosen its grip on my torso. I hadn’t realized how tired I was till I drop into a deep sleep.
I wake up late for dinner and have to quickly change dresses in a bid to appear organized. My maid hasn’t come up and it’s not until I rush down the stairs and bump into her that I discover that my old room is not my current room at all. I was sleeping in a completely different bedroom, how embarrassing.
I rush into the dining room like the wind on a stormy night, gaining a withering look from Mistress. Black who is seated at the table along with my father and a strange man.
“And this is Lucinda,” my father says pointing at me. The man next to him gets up and smiles at me. He bows slightly and takes my hand in a sweaty grip. He drags his moist lips over my palm in what I assume is a romantic gesture. I look over at father, who doesn’t seem to care.
“This is Lord Appleby. He has a large estate in Dorset.”
“Dorset? My, that’s quite some way away.” I try to smile at him, but fail miserably.
“Yes, you’ll love it there.” Lord Appleby sits back down to the right of my father and Ms. Black physically moves me to the seat across from him.
Lord Appleby is painfully thin with almost black eyes and a complexion liked a cooked frog. I imagine him putting his arms around me, and I shiver; it would be like being enclosed by a sallow fleshy girdle. The dinner slowly marches through seven courses, every one of my favorites from Mistress. Leighton’s repertoire, but each plate is tainted by the obvious conclusion to my homecoming: my father has sold me and didn’t even have the decency to tell me beforehand. I’m to become Lady Lucinda Appleby, the sixteen year old wife to a forty year old man who eats with his mouth open and, as he’d gotten drunker through the evening, and has become more and more leery, regardless of Mistress Black or my father’s presence.
The moment I finish chewing the last piece of the cheese and bread I stand up.
“I’m tired from my journey, so I will bid you goodnight, father, Lord Appleby, Ms. Black.” I nod to each of them and turn to leave.
“Wait,” my father says, “Lord Appleby would like a turn around the garden with you.”
I glance toward the window. It must be at least ten o’clock and is pitch black outside.
“Now?” I ask.
My father narrows his eyes at me.
“Oh please, yes. I so love a garden at night.” Lord Appleby jumps to his feet and moves to my side. He’s protecting me. Have I misjudged him? I take his arm and we head into the garden.
Outside, the chill of the night air pinches at my bare arms. I look at Lord Appleby in his lovely warm cloak, but he makes no move to offer it to me in any kind of gentlemanly gesture.
“And these are the white roses,” I say. “My father planted them for my mother.” I linger at the small patch of buds that I remembered as being much bigger, fuller, and more fragrant.
“Ah yes, we are all white roses here,” he says with an exaggerated wink. He’s referring to the House of York. A war has been raging for quite some time between the white rose of York and the red rose of Lancaster, each backing a different king for the throne of England.
We make strained small talk for a while longer as we walk farther away from the lights of the house. Suddenly he stops and grabs my elbow, spinning me round so my body is flush against his.
“I do hope you are amenable to this arrangement, Lucinda,” he says.
I try to pull back, but he’s stronger than he looks and holds me firm. “Please let me go.”
I look up into his eyes and see a slight madness there, a malevolence that I hadn’t noticed before.
“Let me go!” I say again.
“Just a kiss,” he whispers and lowers his lips to mine.
I pull my head back so that he lands his kiss on my chest. I’m unsure as to whether that is worse than his mouth on mine. His grip on me tightens and he begins to slobber rough kisses over my collarbone, while his hand frantically pulls up my petticoats ripping into them as he does. I scream, but no one comes. I struggle and pull back as far as I can from him, falling halfway out his grasp. A wild look crosses his face and he raises up a hand and slaps my cheek. The blow makes me stagger backward, out of his clutches. He stares at me for a moment. I kick him in the crotch. He doubles over with a strained groan. I run.
Chapter Three
My ripped skirts wrap themselves about my pumping legs. I lose my balance once or twice, but instead of falling, use my momentum to keep pushing forward. I’ve now run so far away from the lights of the house that the landscape is coal black around me, smothering most of my senses. I hear Appleby though: he’s yelling into the night for me. I’m not sure what he’s saying, but I doubt it can be anything good. I push on into the black. Suddenly I see a small light. As I barrel towards it, I recognize the dark, half-fallen building before me. I’ve run all the way to Ravenglass. I stop for a moment to catch my breath and consider my dwindling options. I remember Christian from when I was small. He was about ten years older than me, a frail boy with sad eyes and a good heart. Regardless of why my father tried to burn down his house, Christian will aid me tonight. In fact, he might even relish the idea of having Delacourt’s only child coming to him for assistance. Traitor or not, he’s all I have.
I go to sprint toward the front door, but my muscles tense up. I fall over and find myself face down in the mud. I roll over and for a moment stare up at the stars littering the sky. Appleby is still yelling, so can’t be too far away, but the odds of him finding me in the dark are slim. For now, I’m just as safe here as in the walls of Ravenglass. I take a breath and although I mean to thoroughly think through my precarious position, I’m instead hypnotized by the vast midnight sky with its sprinkle of beautiful white lights. I wonder how far away the stars actually are and if they’d burn me if I tried to touch one…
“Lucinda!”
Appleby’s voice breaks my trance and I scramble back up to my feet and run the distance to the gates of Ravenglass. Appleby’s near, but he would never enter another lord’s house without an invitation, even if that house is burned and scarred, and its owner is no longer a York supporter, but a Lancaster.
The gates are large and hard to push, so I have to put my back to the bars and use my weight to open them enough to slip through. Rust stains have probably joined the party on my robe that is being hosted by grass, mud and the saliva of a horrid man.
I rush toward the only light coming from the house. I open the main doors and my senses are gripped by the smell. It’s an odd mixture of decay and cinder. I look for servants, my resilient stride now more of a shuffle. But I find none. I approach the glow slowly as if I am coaxing a wild animal to me; it is coming from the main hall. I open the doors and peek in. The light blooms from a giant fireplace, its wiggling flames making strange shadows on the walls.
As my eyes adjust, I see a tallish man dressed in a black robe. He has tied a sword to a jutting candlestick and tethered it in such a way that it would be lethal if you were to step into it, which it looks like he’s about to do.
“Don’t!” I yell and rush forward to grab the man’s arm.
At my touch he spins round and I fall back, but instead of hitting the floor, I’m suddenly cradled in his arms. I stare up at the
man, who must be Christian, although I would never have recognized him, but for the sadness in his eyes, that is still there.
“Christian?” I say.
The man looks me over and I realize that I must appear in a horrific state of disarray.
“I’m sorry for barging in on you,” I whisper.
“It’s all right milady. Are you in need of assistance?” Christian carefully lifts me up and places me on a nearby couch. I worry slightly that I’ll cover it in mud, so I try to gather my skirts in one place to avoid the embarrassment.
“You are hurt.” Christian bends and lifts my ankle, which appears swollen and slightly bloody. I must have caught it; that was why I fell.
“I was running so fast. I didn’t even feel it.” Although now I can see it, pain begins to flood my body.
Christian tenderly places my ankle on a nearby footstool. He seems lost in thought for a moment. He goes to say something, then stops himself.
“It’s me, Lucinda. Do you remember me?”
It’s painfully obvious that he doesn’t recognize me at all, or has never even given me a second thought in the time we’ve been apart.
“What happened, Lucinda?”
I open my mouth to start the tale of Appleby’s advances, but find I’m blushing instead. Tears are gathering in my eyes and I fear that if I utter any other words at all I’ll simply burst into an unattractive lump of delirium
Christian is staring at me. He sniffs the air, then looks angry. He whispers something under his breath then leaves the room.
I’m about to run for the door when he reemerges with a bowl of water and a piece of cloth. He pulls up another stool beside me, and begins to clean the mud and tears off my face. His touch is so tender I start to cry. He doesn’t even flinch at my unseemly emotion, instead he seems to concentrate harder on cleaning. The water he’s brought is warm and smells vaguely sweet.
With a soft touch, he pulls my foot onto his lap and unlaces my shoe. He peels away my ripped socks and soaks my whole foot in the bowl. I feel instantly better. With slow movements, he washes my foot and I watch in awe, as the water in the bowl turns dark and bloody as he gently cleans the wound.