Lady in Waiting Read online

  This is a work of fiction; everyone in the book is created out of whole cloth (although I did my best to portray them and their times as accurately as possible).

  Lady in Waiting

  copyright(©) Denise Domning 1997, 2011

  All right reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any way.

  Cover art by ADKdesigns.biz

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  A Note from Denise

  Master Christopher Hollier stirred in his sleep as the nightmare wound its steely tentacles around him and dragged him down to hell.

  As it always did this familiar torment held Kit outside it for an instant, letting him be for a brief space in time both a man full grown and a child of eight. Thus Kit looked upon the child he’d been, a boy already tall for his age with sandy colored hair cropped short because he refused to comb it.

  In the blink of an eye he and the child stood in the kitchen at Graceton Castle. Its brown stone floor, worn to gray along concave paths wrought by a century’s worth of footsteps, stretched out before him, reaching to the fireplace at the far wall. The hearth was huge, its mouth so wide that two tall men side-by-side could walk into it. Although the dream never provided the scullery lad who turned the spit’s handle, Kit could see the lamb rotating on the spit over the roaring fire at its back wall.

  His dream gaze followed a path long ago set for it and shifted to the wee black iron pot that sat amid a pile of white hot embers. Placed where it could be easily stirred, almost at the low step that separated the hearth from the kitchen floor, the lid on the pot chattered as the sauce within it bubbled.

  As always happened the moment Kit saw that pot he lost himself to the child he’d been.

  Kit stroked his hand down the smooth velvet of his doublet. He loved these new garments even though he’d only gotten them so he might properly mourn his grandsire’s passing. They looked exactly like his lord father’s attire, even to the coat’s soft fur collar and long, dangling sleeves.

  Nick was crying. Kit looked at his elder brother. Two years Kit’s senior, Nick also wore black. Their clothing and their green eyes were all that named them kin. Nick had their mother’s fair features and fine golden hair while Kit had the Graceton face: long in the nose, narrow in the cheeks.

  Kit put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, conjuring up what comfort he could. “I wish our lord grandsire hadn’t died and you didn’t have to go to serve the heretic king.”

  Nick wiped his nose upon his sleeve and looked up at Kit. “I want to stay here, but if I don’t go Father says we’ll be poor and I’ll never be Lord Graceton.”

  Kit wrinkled his nose. Such a thing was incomprehensible. There’d always been a Lord Graceton at Graceton Castle.

  With the next breath he shook off these deep thoughts. This was their free hour, a time for enjoyment not worries. Leaping to the wood stacked near the fireplace, he snatched up a stick then threw out his chest and pranced to and fro like some high-strung pony. “On your guard!” he warned Nick, wagging the branch before him in challenge.

  Just as Kit expected the prospect of play soothed Nick from his cares. His brother grabbed himself a weapon and took a defensive stance. Kit thrust first, still owning that right even though they were now of a height and he no longer needed the advantage.

  His attack drove his brother into a brief retreat. Nick stopped to eye Kit down the short length of his nose. “How dare you attack the lord of this castle! Now I shall slay you for your impertinence.”

  Sticks clashed. Bark flew. Two years more experience with their swordmaster told the tale. Nick’s weapon cut through the air more quickly than Kit anticipated. The blow caught him on the shoulder with a solid whack. Wincing, Kit fell back, his hand atop his arm.

  “You’re dead,” Nick crowed as he scrambled back beyond the reach of Kit’s weapon.

  Kit cried out in wordless protest. It wasn’t his turn to die, and Nick knew it. “Nay, I was but injured and went away until my wounds were healed,” he said, trying to force the game back to its familiar pattern.

  As he spoke, he skipped behind the cook’s worktable to play out his departure and subsequent recovery. With his stick held before him, he darted out to again confront his brother. “When I was well I came to find you so we might duel again.”

  “And I stabbed you again,” Nick said, thrusting for his brother’s breast.

  Dodging the blow, Kit’s eyes narrowed. This was a flagrant breach of their rules. “But you missed,” he said, “so I hired me four to help drub you proper.” He waved his stick-cum-sword to call his newly employed servants to his side.

  Nick only sneered at this paltry threat. “Then, I called me eight of mine own retainers to beat your four.”

  Kit set his fists on his hips in outrage. “‘Tisn’t fair, Nick. You can’t have more men than me.”

  His brother’s mouth tightened. A superior look twisted his pretty face. “I can do anything I want. Even if our house is bankrupt and I will be but a squire, I am still Graceton’s heir while you are only the second son. Not only do I have more men, my swords are the finer.”

  Accompanied by his larger and better armed imaginary force Nick charged his younger brother. Kit glared at him. If Nick could cheat, so could he. He stuck out his leg.

  “Then, you stumbled,” the child he’d been said.

  Nick did just as commanded and tripped over his younger brother’s outstretched leg.

  Trapped in sleep, the adult Kit moaned, trying to call back his ancient action. To no avail. There was nothing for him to do but watch his brother stagger toward the hearth.

  The only sound the dream ever let him hear was the scuff of Nick’s shoes on stone. Nick’s arms flailed as he tried to catch his balance. Then his foot caught on the hearth’s low step.

  “Nick!” the younger Kit screamed as he watched Nick drop face first atop the wee pot.

  The tiny cauldron toppled. Scorching mist exploded in the fireplace’s arched mouth. The fur collar on Nick’s coat and his dangling sleeves burst into flame. Graceton’s heir shoved himself upright off the searing hearthstone, his mouth opened in a silent scream. Nick’s golden hair was a stinking, blackened mass. Gone were his eyebrows and the skin on his face already hung in sheets as if sliding off his bones.

  “Nay!” Kit burst out of the nightmare, coming upright in his bed as he did so. His heart pounded, his arms were outstretched into the inky darkness as if he could reach back through time and stop his brother’s destruction.

  It never worked. He let his arms fall empty and useless into his blanketed lap. No matter how much he wished it he could never re
turn to Nick what that childish trick had taken from him. Because of what Kit had done, Nick had never left their home to seek favor in the royal court and the monetary recompense that such favor brought with it. Without additional income to offset their grandsire’s debts Nick’s title had gone into abeyance.

  There was no longer a lord at Graceton.

  From the floor outside the open doorway to Kit’s bedchamber Herbert Babthorpe snorted and stirred on his cot. “Who comes! Where are you?” the servant demanded, his panicked voice yet thick with sleep. Kit could hear him scuffling around on the floor for his dagger.

  “It’s only me, Bertie,” he called to his man.

  Bertie huffed in relief then groaned as he stretched, his bedclothes rustling. “That dream of yours again, was it Master Kit? I should have expected as much,” the man said around a yawn as he settled back into sleep. “It’s always worse when we’re home.” His words faded into quiet.

  That was an understatement. The nightmare kept Kit from returning to Graceton for any length of time. Each and every night of his stay the dream would awaken him at about the same hour, leaving in its wake an irresistible urge to visit the kitchen. So predictable was Kit’s torment that servants new to Graceton were warned against his midnight prowls.

  Sighing, Kit leaned back against the bed’s head even as his feet itched to move. If he went right now, Bertie would pursue him, demanding that he return to bed. Bertie thought it unhealthy for his master to brood so over something that had happened almost a score of years ago.

  But tonight Kit’s feet didn’t wish to take him to the kitchen. As always happened when he reached the lowest points in his life, he needed to see Nick. And that wasn’t anything he wished to share with Bertie.

  Rain spattered against the room’s mullioned window. The wind gusted then moaned its way along what had once been the old castle’s outer defenses but was now the exterior of the house. Slowly, Bertie’s breathing reached the rhythmic pattern of sleep.

  Kit thrust back the bed curtains and sat on the side of his mattress. With neither moon nor stars to offer up their silvered light, shadows cloaked what had once been his and Nick’s childhood room. Long habit led him across the chamber to the peg where his bed robe hung. Drawing that garment on over his shirt he stepped around Bertie as he left the bedchamber and crossed the small sitting room that was its antechamber to the door.

  Slowly, carefully, he lifted the latch. There was a gentle creak as the door’s tenons swiveled in their mortises; the burly panel swung wide. Kit shot a glance behind him. Bertie remained a still dark mound in even darker surrounds.

  Leaving the door ajar, Kit stepped out into the gallery.

  Softened by time, the wood in this long hallway was smooth beneath his bare feet. Wide and tall, with windows lining one wall of its length, this massive hallway extended from one end of the house to the other. Meant to offer a sheltered place to walk on wet English days, it also provided access to the family’s private apartments.

  Kit turned to his left, away from the apartment that was traditionally the lord’s chamber, making his way instead to their mother’s apartments, the ones in which Nick now resided. Light outlined its outer door, just bright enough to show him its arched form but not strong enough to illuminate the space beyond the opening. The nearby corners were as black as ink.

  Something shifted in that darkness. Kit caught his breath. He had no wish to encounter Graceton’s ghost this night. He only breathed again when it was a man’s form, not a woman’s that appeared out of the shadows.

  “Is that you, Kit?” asked Master James Wyatt. Jamie was Graceton’s steward as well as Nick’s closest friend, and the only servant Nick tolerated in his presence. So great was Nick’s unease over the damage done to his appearance that not even the Yuletide could bring him into the public areas of his own home.

  Kit tensed at the sound of Jamie’s voice. Such was the consistency of his dream’s torment that Nick had known just when to send Jamie out to await him.

  “Aye, Jamie,” Kit replied, battling resentment. Jamie presumed much on Nick’s affections.

  “Nick was sorry to have slept through your arrival,” the steward said. “He says he cannot wait until the morrow to see you.”

  Worry for his brother drove away all other emotion. “Jamie, he shouldn’t be about in the middle of the night. Nick won’t win out over what rattles in his lungs if he doesn’t get his rest.”

  Jamie’s quiet laugh echoed down the stairs that led to the hall. “You’re right in that, he’ll not win out over what rattles in his lungs. Each bout weakens him. Someday it will take him.”

  The man’s words were like a knife thrust to Kit’s heart. Nick couldn’t die; Kit refused to let him. “That’s not true,” he snapped, sorry he had nothing but a scold to wield against the man who should have been his inferior.

  Just as Nick was not Graceton’s lord because of that tumble into the hearth, Kit had not advanced to the title of knight that should have been his. “Nick’s no weaker now than he was two years ago.”

  “So you would say.” There was a shuffling then a scrape as Jamie caught up the stool he’d used while waiting for Kit’s all-too-predictable appearance.

  “He should rest,” Kit protested again, even though he knew it was useless. “Tell him we can speak in the morning. There’s no need for me to leave at first light. I’m not expected in London for another few days.”

  In the dark Kit could barely see Jamie as he shook his head. “Kit, you know how he gets when you refuse him. Agitation only makes matters worse.”

  “Christ.” Aye, Kit knew just how bad things could get when he refused to do Nick’s will.

  “Come then,” Jamie said, his footsteps echoing on the wooden floor as he went to open the door to Nick’s apartment.

  Candlelight tumbled out of the portal to gleam golden against the plastered walls. Jamie’s dark red hair looked darker still as he leaned to set aside the stool. When he straightened, the light marked the straight line of the steward’s nose. Hollows hung beneath his pale eyes and tired lines marked his lean cheeks. That Nick’s steward yet wore his shirt and breeches, stockings and shoes, suggested he’d been sitting the night away at his master’s side.

  Guilt again stabbed at Kit as he followed Jamie into the two rooms that now defined the limits of Nick’s existence. It should be Kit tending Nick in his many illnesses but that damned dream ever drove him away from his home and his brother.

  Like all the apartments at Graceton, their mother’s old chambers included this spacious front room and two bedchambers behind it each accessed by a door set in the antechamber’s back wall. Nick liked clutter. There was little to be seen of the two long narrow tables that ran the room’s length. The first table, dressed in the fabulously expensive carpet that their father had called his prize possession, played host to a new globe. Strewn around its base were massive tomes, no doubt relating tales of the New World. What time Nick didn’t spend managing the remains of Graceton’s estate he squandered in study of these new lands, places that Kit’s childish trick had guaranteed Nick could never see.

  Upon the other stood a massive candelabra, its base rising from a sea of new candles, pairs still joined by their shared wicks, two wick trimmers, one broken, and a scissor. Beyond that were a dozen tiny wooden boxes, bits of string, and the odd ribbon. A virtual goose’s worth of broken quills feathered the floor at the table’s far end.

  All this mess made the detritus upon Nick’s desk look almost neat. Empty inkpots, fresh quills along with yet-bound sheaves of paper buried its fine wooden top.

  The only thing missing from Nick’s sitting room was the wherewithal for anyone other than Nick and Jamie to sit.

  “Is that you, Kit?” Nick called from his bedchamber, his voice hoarse and thready against the lung infection presently plaguing him.

  “Aye, Nick,” Kit replied, striding into his brother’s inner sanctum with Jamie close upon his heels.

  Nick
’s bed cut across this, the smaller of the apartment’s two sleeping rooms, consuming most of the space within the chamber. Its frame was dark and heavy, and its mattress wide and long enough to accommodate four. The curtains, still bound open to the bedposts, were heavy brocade that gleamed blue-green in the fire’s light. With the draperies pulled aside Kit could see over the mattress to the hearth in the room’s river wall. The fire dancing within it this night offered up heat enough to make the chamber warm but its low flame gave off only limited shifting light. At either side of the hearth a tall south-facing window cut into the wall, giving Nick his only view of the outside world. Opposite the bed’s foot stood Nick’s private altar. Nick had hung the massive crucifix from Graceton’s chapel above it and filled the altar’s top with illegal candles. With every flicker they heralded his brother’s even more illegal Catholic prayers up to heaven.

  Braced upright by a stack of pillows, Nick sat upon his mattress, papers strewn atop his blankets and a cup clutched in the bony remains of his hands. If the smell emanating from that cup was any indication, the concoction within it contained horehound. Because the nightmare never let Kit forget how Nick had looked before his burning it was all the harder to look upon the results of his trick that day. Scars webbed from the bridge of Nick’s nose across his cheeks, this second layer of skin so stiff it made talking a chore and smiling out of the question. Nick’s eyebrows and eyelashes, like the hair along his brow line and around his ears, had never returned.

  Even in the dimness Kit could see the welcome that ever glowed from Nick’s green eyes when he visited. “I heard you shout for me in your dream, Kit,” his brother said in greeting as Jamie circled the bed for the hearth where he turned one of the two small chairs set before it toward the bed and sat, his expression looking even more hollow in the fire’s uncertain light.

  Nick’s gentle tease tore into Kit’s heart as it always did each time Nick spilled it. Kit refused to stop him, simply grateful that his brother yet lived to say the words. He managed a smile. “Liar, I didn’t shout this time.” Kit replied.