Title: Relative Strangers, Part 5

Author: Polly

Disclaimer: Please see part one.

Well this is the last part – I’d really like to know what you folks thought of it!

The journey home took just over a week and a half. They seemed to stop far less on the way

back than they did on the outward journey and it turned out that Richard and William’s short-cut had been most productive. There were no arguments, no fights, no debates: barely any one spoke a word to each other.

Charles showed no signs of suspicious behaviour, Richard and William appeared to have forgotten their earlier unease but above all, Cedric never left the side of either of his brothers – even slept in the same room as them. They thought nothing more of it than childish nightmares and tolerated it without a further word of explanation.

It was a slowly darkening day when they all finally arrived back at Covington Cross and watched the grand gates drawing nearer and nearer. It was all Cedric could do to keep from leaping out of the carriage and running like a mad man for his own front door. Suddenly the coach moved far too slowly. Charles had sent messengers ahead several towns ago that they were to be expected any day now and it was with great delight that three of the weary travellers, saw their father and sister standing at the main entrance way, wide grins on their welcoming faces.

Barely had the wheels come to a halt on the carriage, then Cedric, followed closely by his brothers, had leapt from it. If Thomas was a little surprised at the affection his youngest son was showing, he didn’t appear to show it, or mind it. Instead he gathered the young man up in his waiting arms, giving him a half-swing around, as he was wont to do when the boy was a young child. Finally he set him down again.

“I see you are glad to be back, young man!” he exclaimed. “Did you have a productive time in Chester?” Suddenly Cedric seemed to regain his awareness. Mumbling an answer that he hoped sounded satisfactory he pulled away from his father but was immediately engulfed by his sister’s hug.

After all the party had exchanged greetings, Thomas sent the boys upstairs to unpack and freshen up while he and Charles discussed the trip together. As he made his way upstairs, Eleanor going with them, Cedric began to wonder just how much of the trip Charles would tell Thomas about. His mind began to whirl with implications. He would have to speak to his father about his fears, but by God – if it were hard enough to discuss that with his brothers, how on Earth could he tell his Father what he suspected Charles of? He hadn’t even been able to convince William and Richard though it was safe to say that their suspicions had been aroused somewhat. Thomas would never believe him: he was Cedric after all – no one ever listened to him.

Then his mind switched to another possibility. Suppose Thomas <did> believe him? What then? Charles would be arrested – tried in the King’s Court. If he were found guilty the penalty could be death though he supposed his father could plead for leniency. Thomas was well acquainted with the King – it was possible Edward would be merciful if asked. But what then – Cedric would be held responsible for the death or imprisonment of his own uncle. Eleanor was besotted with him and though wary, Richard and William still enjoyed having an uncle around. As for Thomas…this was his brother – a man he thought he had lost fifteen years ago. If he were in his father’s shoes, he thought. If it were Richard, or William or even Eleanor instead of Charles? Could he bear it if a future son accused them of murder, with no real evidence – if he caused the death of those he loved most in the world? He felt suddenly sick to the stomach at the idea. He knew the answer immediately – it was stabbing at his gut: he would hate them. He could never forgive the person who harmed his family.

His trunk had been laid out on his bed. As he stood by the wash basin, he allowed his epiphany to wash through his mind. His brow felt as though it was on fire and he quickly splashed the clear cold water over his face. It helped ease a little of his physical discomfort but inside his mind still raged. Anger – at the injustice of his unavenged attack; grief – at the sadness of Mary’s plight; and fear – fear of what might be still to come: all fought for supremacy, bubbling to get to the surface and burst through. The Friar would have been proud of him though: with an iron fist, he silenced them all.

From the sounds downstairs, he presumed that supper had just been announced and life at Covington Cross was to carry on as normal.

***

Supper was a grand affair. Roasted pork, pheasant, venison – Eleanor had outdone herself. Though they had eaten well en route, Richard and William nonetheless attacked the luscious spread as though they had not seen food in weeks. Thomas had smiled at their fervour: “Those boys – always did have the appetite of an ox!” Then he had turned to address Cedric, seated as far away from the others as he could be without arousing suspicion. “Well then, Cedric – tuck in, you must be famished!” Cedric had come down to supper politely but so far, Thomas had been unable to extract more than a few curt but polite responses out of him.

He seemed distant, distracted, intensely withdrawn and his appetite had waned almost into oblivion. Thomas leaned forward and examined his youngest intently. “Are you feeling ill, Cedric?” he asked, concern lacing his words. Cedric’s eyes darted up to meet his father’s but only for a second. Next to his father sat Charles watching him with the appearance of feigned disinterest, but Cedric knew better. Charles was in fact watching him like a hawk – those dark eyes never wavered from his target.

“Our little Cedric is not a good traveller, I’m afraid Thomas,” he explained lightly. “I’m sure he must be near exhausted.”

Thomas regarded him kindly. “Is that so, Cedric?” he asked sympathetically. Very slowly, his eyes downcast, Cedric simply nodded wordlessly.

“I’m sure you shall grow out of it with experience,” Thomas assured him. “This was after all, your very first journey – there will doubtless be many more to come.”

“Not if he joins a monastery,” Richard pointed out. William elbowed him in the ribs but had to cover a smirk himself.

Cedric pointedly ignored him, his jaw hardening. “Well Father,” he continued, “perhaps not all journeys shall be like this one – it was most unusual after all.”

William and Richard put down their knives. From his seat next to Thomas, Charles halted the wine cup at his lips and just for a moment, brought it down to rest on the table, gaze fixed on Cedric. However, after a brief pause, resumed his drinking but his eyes remained locked.

“Really?” Thomas asked in interest. “How so?”

“Yes,” Charles added, “Do tell us in what way?”

The young man looked from his father to Charles and then back again. He could feel his brothers’ questioning, slightly nervous expressions upon him. Charles said nothing more – he knew he didn’t have to.

“Well?” Thomas prompted.

Cedric looked away. “It was quite arduous,” he finally muttered.

“Yes – quite so!” Richard agreed quickly.

Cedric didn’t even bother to watch Charles’ expression change – he knew exactly what it would be. “Well then!” Thomas exclaimed. “Perhaps it is best after all if you do all get an early night.” Cedric didn’t answer and was grateful when the conversation turned to other topics.

Though he spoke no more, inwardly his anger consumed him. His vow of silence burned and ate away at his insides. Images, words, feelings – trappings of his recent journey entered his mind unbidden and bombarded his senses.

‘He could not persuade her to stay. He coveted her but she would not listen – would not listen!’

‘He loved her but he let her go. Why? Why so? He covets what he sees and he takes what he covets.’

On and on his mind raged as those around him chatted and laughed amongst themselves.

“I couldn’t believe it!” Eleanor was complaining. “I spoke to him in the forest for almost a full hour while I was hunting and he was actually interesting me. We spoke of culling techniques and crossbows and of skinning pigs – it turns out that all he was trying to do was woo me! The cheek of that man.”

“There’s another word I could think of to describe him,” Richard smirked but silenced himself at a look from Thomas.

“Eleanor,” Thomas was saying, “Suitable…well, suitors do not attempt to entice a young lady with talk of hunting and killing.”

“No?” she asked, resting her chin on her palm.

“No,” Thomas affirmed. “They sing ballads and play the lyre – they recite loving poetry.”

“Well I’m not!” William said gravely.

“Then you’ll not have much success with women, William,” Thomas warned. “It is an art you must learn to perfect in this life.” William and Richard both appeared a little uncomfortable at the prospect. To them, boasting about their own achievements seemed to be a sure way of attracting the maidens. Thomas saw this and grinned at them.

“Not to worry, boys. I’m sure I can help you out. I do remember a few lines from my own youth you know. Your mother used to love to receive poetry. I’m sure I must still have them somewhere though I confess where alludes me for the moment. Do you remember you used to write some for Mary as well, Charles? Do you know what you may have done with them?”

Charles shifted slightly in his chair and took another swig of his wine. “I am sure Mary took them with her when she left,” he answered, smiling. “They were too priceless to leave behind!” The little group chuckled.

“Liar.”

They stopped and five faces turned to the voice. Cedric’s head had snapped up at the mention of her name. His eyes were dark and still but the rest of him was shaking in silent rage.

Thomas was puzzled. “Pardon, Cedric?” he asked, not quite sure if he had heard correctly.

Cedric fixed his stony glare on Charles though his words were addressed to Thomas.

“I <said>”, he replied emphatically, “that he is a liar.”

“Cedric!” Thomas admonished, sitting straighter in his chair and frowning heavily at the boy. “Apologise this instant.”

Charles leant forward, attempting to glare the boy down, but Cedric was past caring – anger was taking over. Ignoring his father he went on, the words coming out in a rush:

“I’ve seen the poems that you speak of. Aunt Mary never took them because they are in your possession and you know it…”

“Cedric, enough! You will…”

“I will NOT! That man is a LIAR!” he screamed, standing up and slamming a fist heavily down onto the table so the table wear shook. His eyes welled up with tears of anger and frustration. “Mary never <took> the papers with her because HE HAS THEM - she never took <anything> with her because she NEVER LEFT COVINGTON CROSS!!!”

His breath caught in his throat the moment the words spilled out. He didn’t know where they had come from but in that instant, he knew them to be true. At that instant he knew a lot things that he would never quite come to understand how.

Charles said and did nothing. Richard, William and Eleanor just sat and stared at each other in shock. Thomas leapt to his feet, his face red with fury. “Cedric,” he began, his voice shaking in rage, “it is too late for apologies now. Leave this table at once and go upstairs to your room. I <shall> be joining you presently. GO!” he bellowed as Cedric remained for a moment where he stood, hands clenched into fists by his side, expressions of anger and hurt lining his face. All at once, he turned and fled from the room, banging the door behind him as he ran.

***

Cedric had left the table as instructed, but by the time he looked at where his feet were hurrying him to, his mind realised that he was not headed up to his room.

Instead, he found himself where he never would have expected – traversing the gloom and dank of the dungeons. What possessed him he still knew not but he found himself placing an uneasy trust in his bizarre instincts.

The walls, the cells, the low ceiling – it all still seemed oppressing, but now there was something else there too: an explanation – an explanation for his fear. ‘But what could this have to do with Mary?’ his mind cried out. No one came down here – for as long as he could remember, the dungeons had never been touched!

It hit him like a slingshot.

His heart was racing, he could only imagine how wild his expression must have been. Scouring the darkness ahead, he found it. The cell – dark, decaying, foreboding and the only one repaired, the lighter patch now almost fading in with the rest of the wall.

“M master Cedric?” He spun to see one of the servant women standing nervously behind him, “Can I help you, sir?”

Immediately he fixed his intense gaze on her. “When was this wall repaired?” he demanded, indicating the cell with a waving arm. She took a couple of steps back. It was clear that he was frightening her a little with his demeanour but he didn’t care.

“I…I don’t know, Sir,” she admitted.

“You don’t know or you can’t remember?”

“Not in my time here, young Sir,” she answered timidly. His mind raced.

“When did you come here?” he demanded.

“I, I replaced Abigail sir.”

Cedric froze. “Who?”, he asked carefully.

“Abigail”, she repeated. “It must be nigh on fifteen years now, sir and there’s been nothing done since I did arrive.”

Oddly enough, he found his breathing slowing down. “Thank-you,” he murmured, turning away from her and back towards the cell. She gave a hasty bob before gladly scurrying away.

With steady strides he approached the cell. The gate was unlocked so he pushed it open with one hand and crept inside. He should have been afraid – he <was> afraid, but somehow…none of that mattered. Not right then.

Cedric slowly and carefully approached the wall. With tentative movements, he ran his hands lightly over the light patch, then over the wall surrounding it. Something felt different – this part was cold, almost icy to the touch. He hadn’t felt that kind of chill since…

He shuddered for a second before forcing himself to shrug it away. He tore his gaze frantically around the room. It came to rest on the basket outside the cell: swords – perfect. He retrieved the sturdiest one and then brought it back inside. Standing back from the wall, he raised the sword high above his head and then brought it down in a wide, strong arc. It reverberated against the patch and almost wrung his shoulder out of its socket – but not without reward. A large crack appeared, blighting the surface like a scar. For the briefest of instants, Cedric wondered just what on Earth he thought he was doing. Then he raised the sword and struck again. The crack grew larger and chunks began to fall away. Who ever constructed this had done so in great haste – the workmanship was poor and the materials weak. As if in a frenzy, Cedric raised the sword and struck out over and over again, ignoring the throbbing pain in his arms and back. Again and again he slashed away at the crumbling wall as the hole gaped larger and larger and the sweat poured down his back.

And then he stopped.

Just like that, the passion ended and the driving force left him. He dropped the sword, damaged beyond use, to the floor where it clanked in protest. With his hands, he easily pulled away the last of the filling. It crumbled pitifully to the ground, laying about his feet like witnesses to a massacre. As the rubble fell, the dust had risen and now swirled around Cedric almost like a wreath, choking the air in his lungs. He coughed and raised his hand to cover his face for a moment until the cloud had settled. It seemed to take both too long and not long enough all at once.

When he felt however, that it <had> subsided, he drew his hand away from his face and looked.

He couldn’t scream. It just wasn’t in him: he couldn’t even cry out. He felt the tears though, hot and heavy, welling up as grief flooded his senses even before his mind knew the truth.

She stood there, encased in the wall, fragments of a dress still clinging loosely to her frame, a spark of silver lighting the dullness of her bones.

With careful, reverent hands, he reached out to the silver about her neck and rested it lightly between his fingers. Perhaps out of a last sign of respect, he felt the need to whisper the name, spelled out in the five letters on the chain: MARIA.

He could not at that moment feel fear, or anger, or disgust. All that overwhelmed him as he gazed at her face was pity, and love and for once an understanding – that just by knowing, he was somehow helping her.

He should tell someone, his brain told him – you should call for help. But he could not leave her, not yet – she had been alone down here long enough. His eyes travelled down from her face and over her tattered dress and body. The deep blue still showed through in some patches of fabric. He wondered for a moment how beautiful Mary must have been. She even appeared graceful in death, he mused.

As his gaze fell, he noticed a fragment of the wall that still remained, imprisoning her left hand behind it. Anger over took him again as the cause of her death sprung back to his thoughts. Hastily he tore the remaining wall from in front of her and eased her hand away. As he did so, however, something caught his eye. Her right hand was flat open, but this left one was loosely curled up. Gently he prised her fingers open and jumped in surprise as something small and golden slipped out and fell to the floor.

Kneeling down, he picked it up off the floor and dusted it off. It was a ring – expensive by the looks of it and familiar, he realised. It took only a second to place it – his father had one just like it: a signature ring given to him when he came of age. He held it closer to his face. Though the lighting was dim, the engraving was sure enough: C.G.

A small smile played his lips. Even in death, Mary would not be cheated.

Slipping the ring into his pocket he went to rise. Letting out a startled scream, he jerked as he felt the blow to the back of his head. Cedric fell forwards, hitting the floor with a sickening thud but rolled over onto his back nevertheless. Fear gripped his heart as Charles stood over him. He said nothing – he did not need to. His face, hard, cold, calm – it spoke volumes.

Quicker than Charles would have expected, Cedric leapt to his feet and made a mad dash to get past his uncle. Charles however, was faster. He reached out a gloved hand and grabbed the young man around the throat, pushing him back and forcing him against the wall. Cedric tried to call for help but Charles had placed both hands around the boy’s neck and was now squeezing for all he was worth. Never once did he speak to him, never once did he look away from his nephew’s pleading eyes. Cedric tugged and tugged at his uncle’s hands in a desperate attempt to dislodge them but to no avail.

‘Think Cedric, think!’ his mind screamed. He didn’t want to die down here – alone, lost – bricked into history like Mary had been. His vision was swimming and his lungs heaved for air as his heart beat hard against his chest. Still, Charles’ grip did not waver. Cedric used his feet to slam hard into Charles’ leg. He heard a satisfying crack and was pleased to see the man’s neutral expression flash with pain and rage. He raised his leg to try again but Charles was ready, lifting the boy off the floor and slamming him into the wall behind till Cedric heard the distant crack of his head against the stones. Dimly he was aware of the flow of blood as it ran down his neck and mingled with the sweat and dirt.

His lungs could no longer stand it – his heart was slowing and a strange part of him was almost grateful. His vision receded, getting smaller and smaller, fading at the edges until only a pinprick of sight remained. And then he fell, crumpling to the floor in a heap.

‘Dear God,’ he thought, ‘so this is actually it? It isn’t exactly as I imagined it would be. Curious.’ It took a few moments more for it to dawn on him. If he was still forming thoughts, then he was still alive. In a panic, his mind leapt to Charles and he struggled to sit up and see what had happened to him – was he readying for the final blow, preparing his own entombment? Try as he might, however his body would not respond. Lack of air and two head wounds ran their natural course and Cedric simply passed out into peacefulness, missing the unfolding scene completely as his uncle lay, metres away from him on the ground, reeling from the blow just dealt by his father.

Thomas stood, surveying the scene before him. Behind him he could hear the approaching sounds of his sons and the servants, including the same serving woman who had told him of the encounter with Cedric only minutes earlier. His son was alive! Through the bubbling, raw anger that fact soothed the waters. Everything else – everything, shocked and sickened him to the core. Leaving his brother’s inert form for the moment, he hurried to his son’s side and knelt down next to him, cradling his head in his lap. His boy he would see to first. Charles – by God, he thought, Charles could and <would> come later.

***

Cedric had awoken twelve hours later, safe and comfortable in his own bed. Smiling down on him with weary eyes had been Thomas, immensely relieved to have his son awake again. For a long moment, Cedric had doubted his own eyes, not truly believing that the ordeal was over and he was home and safe. However when Thomas had leant forward to fondly brush the hair away from his face, murmuring that all was well now and that Charles was gone, Cedric collapsed back into the pillows, relieve and shock flooding through him.

The physician had insisted on a great deal of rest and so it was after a quick but hearty meal, that Cedric was bustled back to bed again until further notice. When he awoke again, it was darker this time and instead of his father, Richard and William were sitting by his bedside, playing cards and arguing over the outcomes. They didn’t even notice him until he coughed non-too politely. Inwardly Cedric smiled though – it was comforting to witness and participate in such ordinary and familiar events, helping to convince him that his turn in fortune was really happening. After packing the cards away, Richard and William set about informing their youngest sibling of all the events since he had stormed away from the dining table last night.

Charles had excused himself shortly after Cedric had left, Thomas assumed at the time, because he was upset or embarrassed. In an attempt to calm their father’s anger, William and Richard had told Sir Thomas what they knew of the last few days of their journey to Chester, including Cedric’s earlier unease and the night they had found him fleeing from the inn in fear of his life. They had hoped this might go some way to excusing his current behaviour through reason of stress and illness. Cedric was grateful for their help though shivers ran down his body at the actual confirmation that all he had heard and suspected since Charles’ arrival had in fact been true. Somehow, if every last detail had simply been a figment of his over-active imagination, he would have much preferred it. True, he would have been mortally humiliated but Mary might still be alive, Father would not have been forced to confront a brother and he himself would not now be recovering in bed from an attempt on his life.

In any event, instead of dismissing the news, or even becoming angry at it (as Richard and William feared he might) Thomas had been filled with an irrational sense of doubt. When Martha (the serving woman Cedric had earlier encountered in the dungeons) had come rushing into the hall, speaking of the state she had just seen the young master in, Thomas’ doubt had been joined by an encroaching sense of fear. They all knew Cedric’s fear of that place, and Thomas had found it most unusual that in his right mind, he should choose then to go down there. At this point, his brothers questioned Cedric as to what on Earth had actually made him head for the dungeons that night.

“I have no idea,” he answered truthfully after considering the matter for a moment. “My legs were moving and I just…followed them.” It wasn’t the last time he would repeat that explanation to baffled friends and family and each time, the reasoning never became clearer – at least, not as far as he would ever admit to.

So, Thomas had followed – and that’s when he had seen it. His own brother, strangling his own son.

Doubt was cast aside: anger, fear and love usurped its place. Thomas had run forward – towards the fading light of his son, sword drawn. Charles had been so absorbed in his task of infanticide that he had not heard the approach. His dark eyes had never left Cedric’s as they had rolled further and further up, to the back of his head. As such, he had not seen the advance either. Cedric remembered those eyes well but did not mention this to his storytellers. He would not mention it ever again.

Though his sword had been drawn, for whatever reasons he had, Thomas did not strike his brother down with the blade, opting to strike Charles once, hard across the back of the skull with the hilt. He had gone down with no fuss or drama, blood beginning to seep from the wound. That was when Richard, William and Eleanor had arrived. They had immediately tended to Cedric whilst Thomas, albeit reluctantly had after a while, gone to deal with Charles and handed him over to the law. They noticed Cedric’s discomfort at the mention of the present state of his uncle and so smoothly changed the topic.

One game of cards later and then Eleanor had come to herd them out but not without promising to visit Cedric a little later on.

***

Two days later, Cedric was finally allowed free range once more. However he found that, much to his own surprise he spent most of the day in his room, occasionally venturing out to wander the grounds close to the castle.

Such was his feeling of displacement that he actually found himself in the room that, second to the dungeon, he would normally have been least likely to visit voluntarily. “Cedric?” asked the Friar from across the table, “are you sure you’re feeling up to this? We can always continue your lessons when you have had ample time to readjust.”

Cedric shook his head firmly. “No thank-you, Friar. I’ve probably missed enough lessons as it is. Best get it over with now,” he joked half-heartedly. The Friar returned a weak smile.

“Very well then. Let us continue with Virgil’s ‘Aenead’.” Cedric duly opened his book and began to stare at the Latin as the Friar translated. Aeneas went on a journey; he became distracted – he almost never continued to the journey’s end. And he didn’t marry Dido: the Friar had been right then – not everything was as simple as he first imagined - there was such a thing as ‘sub text’.

As the pages rolled by and the Friar continued to translate, the words on the page gradually began to blur together in a neat pattern of black squiggles. He struggled to regain focus but the words would just not reform on the page into anything intelligible.

“Cedric?”

His head snapped up. The Friar had stopped translating a minute or two ago and was now simply watching him from over his book. “Perhaps we should call an end for today, hmm?” he asked, kindly.

“No – please. I’d rather be here,” Cedric explained awkwardly. “I don’t know what to do, otherwise.” The Friar nodded slightly in understanding.

“As you wish – I must say that this will please your father no end. We are on page eighty- two. Please continue translating at verse fifty.”

Cedric once more took the book up and after a few moments scanning, he had found and begun the appropriate passage. After only a few lines however, he was stumbling over the words and losing his place time and time again. He trailed off into silence and for a moment, stared blankly once more at the page.

“Did he really confess to everything?” he asked suddenly. The Friar sighed – he had always known these questions would be the ultimate aim of the young man’s visit.

“We’ll never know if Charles admitted to all that he has done but I see no reason why he should have held back now. Your father asked me to counsel Charles during his questioning – hear his private confession if need be but your uncle refused. He said what he had to say in front of us all.” The Friar closed the book and leant back in his chair, surveying his young charge carefully. The last thing he wanted to do was further distress the boy, but if these unanswered questions were the cause of his anxiety then it was better for all if he knew the truth. He shook his head in sad amazement, “All for the anger of a one-sided love.”

“Will he really be tried for murder?”

The Friar seemed surprised at that question. “Why yes. He has confessed to the murder of Mary Eden – you saw the evidence yourself.”

“I know,” he agreed hastily, preferring not to dwell on that image. “But what of the man on our journey, Edward – the one I told Father about? I heard him tell Charles that he had killed for him. But if Uncle Charles killed Aunt Mary, then who…?” He trailed off questioningly.

“Her suitor,” the Friar filled in, picking up on his train of thought. “Mary Eden’s lover – Robert Hardy,” he explained at Cedric’s blank expression. “For Mary to have eloped with this man, he too would have to have had disappeared.”

“So Uncle Charles paid him to kill this man to cover for Mary’s death?” Cedric reasoned. “Why him though – did he owe Charles a favour?”

“We don’t know, Cedric. Perhaps he did but it is more likely that this Edward was simply plagued with avarice and a blackened heart: Robert Hardy was his brother.” Cedric’s eyes widened in realisation.

“So will Edward be tried as well?” Cedric wondered. At this, the Friar glanced away for a moment.

“He might if he is ever found. It is reported that he is missing since journeying into Chester almost a month ago – many believe him to be dead but there is no proof of anything.”

“It was Charles,” Cedric muttered quietly, almost to himself.

“Perhaps so,” agreed the Friar, equally quietly, “but without a confession only God will know.”

“Did Uncle Charles forge the letter as well?”

“Which letter, Cedric?”

“The one from Robert’s brother, saying that he and Aunt Mary had eloped together?”

“Oh, yes I’d heard of that. No, I imagine Edward did that – his handwriting would be closer to his brother’s than Charles’ would have been. Most likely Mary never even intended to leave,” he said sadly, shaking his head at the tragedy of it.

“But she did,” Cedric protested, “I think not to elope, but she did try to leave Covington Cross one night. Someone…a servant saw her leave and, and someone else – a pregnant woman, she saw it too. Charles must have dragged her back inside. Or maybe he killed her right there?”

At this the Friar decided to call an end to the conversation. “Come now, Cedric – I am sure your father would rather we remain focused on our studies, not on gossip. Now I suggest you leave your books for today – we cannot force that brain of yours to take in what it does not want: I’ve learned that the hard way.” Cedric gave him a distracted half smile and nodded, but his thoughts were already miles away.

***

The evening was wearing on and, from the slight chill in the air, it was clear that summer was ending and the autumn nights were approaching. The sky was light enough however to still stroll pleasantly about the grounds, enjoying the varying hues of the sunset. Cedric, Richard and William had been practising their swordplay but as the session had worn on, Cedric had begun to tire. Luckily for him, Eleanor appeared from the tilting yard ready to take his place. Her recently found passion for jousting had noticeably dwindled since she had learnt the truth about her uncle. No one had questioned her on it as they already knew the answer. Like the rest of them, she too would need time to come to terms. Charles had only been in their lives for a very short time but he had infiltrated every part.

Cedric made his way back inside the castle intent on going up to his room. As he passed the staircase however, he heard noises coming from the solar. On closer inspection, he determined it was his father – talking to himself again it appeared. Cedric smiled – every father needed the odd eccentricity: it was what enabled their children to mock them in all good humour. Suddenly, Cedric found that he did not wish to be alone.

Turning from the stairs, he ambled over to the solar where, as expected, he found Sir Thomas standing amid a mess of odds and ends. Curiously, he picked his way across the floor to stand by his father who was holding a bundle of old papers and muttering something about them to himself.

“Father?” he asked, causing Thomas to jump unexpectedly.

“Sorry,” he apologised, “I didn’t mean to startle you.” When Thomas saw who it was, a broad smile spread over his face.

“Not at all, Cedric!” He clapped a hand lightly on his son’s shoulder. “How are you feeling? The Friar tells me you’ve been back at lessons today. I’m pleased at your enthusiasm but I feel that perhaps you should stay off for another day or so.” Cedric nodded absently. His gaze was casting about the strange objects in the room. They seemed somehow familiar. Thomas followed his look.

“They’re from Charles’ room,” he explained. “The one in the turret tower. I believe you’ve been there before.”

“Once,” Cedric agreed. Then he noticed the bundles of letters in Thomas’ hand.

“I have seen those before though,” he said, “They were poems – love songs.” Thomas smiled sadly. “Indeed. They are the poems Charles wrote to your Aunt Mary. The one’s you said you had seen…and that I doubted you on.” Cedric quickly began to shake his head but Thomas forestalled him. “I was wrong, Cedric,” he admitted quickly. “I should have trusted you – paid closer attention. My desire to mend my past almost cost me all future happiness. I could not have lived if I had lost you, Cedric.”

Cedric glanced away uneasily. “It’s all right Father,” he mumbled awkwardly. “I understand. I imagine if it had been Richard or William…I…I’m sorry for what has happened between you and Uncle Charles.” At this, Thomas took his son firmly by the shoulders and forced the boy to meet his eyes. “Cedric – this was by no means your fault. You must never hold yourself accountable because no body else does. Do you understand?”

He nodded silently and Thomas drew him into a tight hug, holding on to him as if he may slip away at any moment and only releasing the boy when his arms had worn out.

Keeping a hand resting gently on his son’s arm, Thomas turned to the rest of the items cluttering the room. “So what do you think of this little lot?”

Cedric eyed it carefully. “What do you think it is?”

“It seems mostly to be things of Mary’s. One can assume that we were meant to have thought that she packed them herself.” A cloud of grief passed over his face for the joyful young woman he had once known, cut down far too soon. His pain was tangible – almost cutting into Cedric too and so it was not entirely unselfishly that he attempted to draw his father away from his thoughts.

“What was in the trunks?” he asked, pointing to where they stood on the other side of the room. Thomas looked over at them. “I’m not entirely sure,” he admitted, “clothing perhaps?” Cedric wandered over and tried the locks. They were still tight and the lid would not budge. Thomas smiled. “We’ll get an iron-monger in here tomorrow,” he assured the frustrated youth.

As he turned to move away, Cedric’s foot knocked against something leaning up against the back wall. Concerned that he might have damaged something, he pulled it away from the wall and leant it against the trunks to get a better look at it.

It appeared to be a painting, already uncovered by Thomas as the dust cloth lay discarded on the floor next to it. Inquisitively Cedric knelt down to take a closer look. As he did so, Thomas noted his find.

“Ah yes – I’m glad you’ve found that. It truly is a magnificent work of art. It was commissioned by Charles you see,” he said by way of explanation. “After the fall out, I never asked after it again wanting nothing that reminded me of him. Foolish of me, really.”

Carefully, Cedric ran a hand over the canvass, tracing the gentle lines of the painted face. It was a beautiful face – kind and soft…and those eyes, he mused. They were captivating, enticing and familiar all at once. The hair, the calm and loving expression on her face – he had seen them – had known them all before.

Then the answer struck him down. “Nan!” he breathed. ‘Dear God!’ he thought suddenly in a panic. ‘He had last seen her in Chester! He had been sure she had come to him that night and he had been so distracted that he had forgotten all about her. He had to act now – to send horses and messengers to seek her out…’

“Where on Earth did you hear her called that?”

His thoughts froze. “Father?” he asked slowly. “What do you mean?”

“That name. I haven’t heard her called that in…well in more years than I care to remember,” he said, shaking his head fondly and chuckling at the memory.

Cedric’s voice was dry in his throat – he didn’t trust it to come out. “Who?” he croaked.

Thomas looked at him in amusement. “Your mother of course! I remember she said it was Mary. Yes, that’s right! As young children, Mary would never call her Anne – perhaps she couldn’t? Anyway, she only ever called her Nan and eventually the name stayed between the two of them – a sort of pet name if you will. I can’t imagine where you came across it.”

Cedric was backing up away from the painting – away from that face, staring at him innocently from behind long dead eyes. Shaking his head, he managed to whisper, “But it can’t be – can’t be her.”

Thomas appeared puzzled but then he seemed to realise something.

“Of course. You’ve never really seen pictures of your mother, have you? I have been most at fault there. I confess that sometimes the memory of her could be…overwhelming. If you’d known her I imagine you’d understand.

Of course this painting was quite old even when Charles had it painted – by the time he left England, your mother was heavily pregnant with you and knowing her, she would never have consented to a portrait!

Perhaps I shall display this now? Yes, at the top of the staircase perhaps where we may all enjoy it. Cedric?” he asked in mild concern, “are you alright? You seem piqued.”

Cedric nodded, mouthing words that never came out. His hands were shaking, his heart pounding. Wordlessly he ran from the room.

***

He tore from the hall way and out of the castle, not stopping when he hit the cool evening air but carried on, running for all he was worth past the courtyard, past the fields and on further, into the outer grounds. On and on he ran, his lungs heaving in his chest, every breath of air seemingly piercing them like a needle until he reached the orchards.

He knew she’d be here – she was always here.

Hot tears streamed down his face and he wrapped his arms about his waist, both to steady his shaking body and to alleviate his muscle cramps.

The trees were silent, the air was still – nobody moved: nobody breathed.

“MOTHER?” he cried. Silence answered him and his tears fell harder.

“Mother – please!”

He sank to his knees onto the cool, dewy grass, silently pleading with her to appear. Deep down however – down where sub-consciousness, and instinct and understanding were buried, he knew that she would not appear to him. Whatever they had shared – whatever bond had not been severed – it was severed now.

He stayed in the orchard for another hour. The sun had well and truly set before he had picked himself off the ground – no longer desolate and lonely, but filled with the strangest sensation of peace and clarity. The memories were still raw, but they were fond and with a slowly lightening heart, he made his way back toward his family – towards his home.

***

Thomas surveyed the scene from a slight distance, an air of dispassion across his face.

Charles stood silently next to the Sheriff’s men, bound fast.

“Are you sure, Thomas?” one of them asked.

“Quite so,” he replied firmly. “Escorting prisoners on my land is still my responsibility. I shall see to it from here.” Charles looked at him evenly. If he had once doubted his brother as a fool, he no longer did so now. ‘So be it’, he thought grimly – ‘this is as it should be.’

The sheriff’s men nodded curtly in understanding and handed the documentation over to Thomas.

Thomas waited and watched until they had mounted their horses and rode out of sight, along the road that led into town. When the dust from the horses’ hooves had settled, he finally turned to Charles, hand constantly on his sword. He could not bear to contemplate the man he saw before him – the man who could murder his wife’s sister and try to take the life of his youngest child. The man who as a boy had played with him and protected him from harm’s way. Somehow, this only served to make his hatred of him now, all the more passionate. It burned in his eyes every time he looked at him. Through the questioning, they had spoken little to each other about anything other than his actual confessions: but bad blood could not stay silent for long.

“Mount up now,” he ordered, not bothering to ask if he could manage the task with his hands tied. He did, however and as soon as Thomas had checked that their horses were lunged together, he mounted his own horse and kicked it into action. Together both horses set off at a canter along the dusty road. Up ahead of them, the turning was approaching that would lead them to the shire’s gaol. Charles regarded it with quiet contempt but with acceptance nonetheless.

As the horses neared the turning, Thomas slowed them down. Suddenly however he yanked the reigns sharply to the left, sending the horses off in a gallop down a narrow path, leading deep into the forest. Charles could not keep the surprise from crossing his face as they changed their course. Thomas had never in his life been one for the spur of the moment. Rules: that is what guided his life – that is what he counted on when planning Mary’s elopement: it was what he was counting on whilst Thomas transported him to incarceration. And now – now things were finally changing.

On and on Thomas drew them deeper into the forest. Dimly, Charles tried to remember what was on the other side. Thomas still did not speak to him, but for what Charles knew his brother had in mind, there would be a time and a place for speech and it was not while riding their horses.

As the forest’s outer edge came into walking distance, Thomas drew them to a swift halt and leapt off his steed. Wordlessly, Charles followed. Thomas remained silent, turning away from Charles seemingly contemplating the forest around him. Charles simply waited, aware that whatever game was being played here – this time it was by Thomas’ rules.

At length, Thomas spoke – so quietly that if Charles had not been paying close attention he would not have heard it:

“I do not understand you, Charles.”

“What is it you do not understand, brother?” he replied evenly. At once Thomas spun around, temper raging. With all of his might, he sent his fist cracking into Charles’ jaw causing the man to fly backwards from the blow and hit the ground hard. The crack on impact caused little satisfaction to Thomas, however. Hurt; grief; anger – all of these emotions tortured his very soul.

As ably as he could manage, Charles picked himself up off the forest floor ignoring as best he could, the throbbing pain in his face.

“You have tried to take the life of my son! My <son>, man – how could you? In God’s dear name, how could you try to harm him?”

Charles smiled sadly at Thomas, wiping the blood from his lip in a kind of peaceful contemplation. “Thomas, you have no idea how I admire that boy of yours. He is intelligent beyond his own understanding – perhaps beyond yours as well.

Of all the lives I could have felled in my affairs – his would have been by far the most tragic.”

Thomas stared at him, dumbfounded – not sure whether to trust his instincts or not. “Then…why?” he managed, struggling to find some reason, some understanding to pin his confusion on.

“Because of his persistence, his ingenuity. Nurture that boy, brother – he will end up surprising you, I guarantee. But come, Thomas – this talk is not the reason you brought me in here. Without the papers, my disappearance will eventually mean very little to the Law. I’m sure you have gathered that by now or we would not be standing here as we do.”

Thomas straightened, his expression unreadable. “Indeed I have, Charles. You have attempted to rob me of that which I hold most dear – my family. For that, I can never find forgiveness enough in my heart to bestow upon you.”

“I understand that, Thomas – believe me.”

“Then I am glad to hear that.” From beneath the folds of his cloak, Thomas reached into his belt and brought out a long, ornate silver dagger. Charles’ eyes widened ever so slightly, but that was the only response he was prepared to give. He may have been expecting this – his brother, he had learned, was fiercely protective of his own – but that did not mean that he would dance to his brother’s tune.

In three short strides, Thomas had crossed to Charles and with one hand, taken a grip on his right arm and with the other, readied the blade. ‘No’, Charles thought, almost fondly, ‘my brother is not the fool I have taken him for.’ Roughly, Thomas jerked Charles’ arms forward slightly, anger lining his jaw – facial muscles twitching with tension and strain. Bringing the knife towards him, he smoothly applied it to Charles’ bonds, sawing through the ropes that held him tight. Charles gazed down in him in astonishment, suspicion obvious on his face but a question on his lips. Before he could remark however, Thomas cut in, roughly:

“There will never be a place for you at my table again, Charles. My hatred of you will be ever lasting. But…I find…that you are still, and always will be…family. If you come near me or mine again, know this – I will strike you down by the Grace of God. No courts – no law: only my law. Your horse will return with me but before this week is gone, you will have left England and this time, you shall not be returning. For all extent and purposes I may consider you dead. Do you understand all that I have said?”

Charles nodded once, mutely. Perhaps his brother was fool enough, after all?

“Then go – we shall not meet again.”

With one last look at his brother, Charles turned on his heel and made his way to the forest’s edge and into the neighbouring town. England would be a land he would be only too glad to leave behind.

Thomas watched him go – watched until his brother was out of sight. As he mounted his horse for his return, he fined his resolve to speak of this encounter to no one. Though his heart and mind raced in turmoil, his gut was offering assurances – if Charles were ever foolish enough to return, he would be ready.

Drawn in mind and spirit, he spurred his horse onwards to Covington Cross – back to the folds of his family, and the welcome embrace of their inextricable trials and fortunes.