The Heir - Catherine Coulter [1]
No, not a short time ago . . . centuries ago. You will only know my tomb, my little one. Only a carved plaque with your mother’s name. I will be but cold gray stone and a simple name to you. Aged, lifeless stone pressing down upon me, shrouding me forever.
Magdalaine shifted her weakened eyes to the large gilt-framed painting of Evesham Abbey, hung above the mantelpiece so proudly by the last Earl of Strafford. As if in a trance, her eyes unwavering, Magdalaine stared at the painting. It was as if she was standing in the green undulating park that surrounded the red brick house. The magnificent lime trees that lined the graveled drive shaded the bright sun from her eyes and the hedges of yew and holly were so vividly alive that she felt she could reach out and touch them and feel the very texture of their leaves. She remembered seeing them for the first time so clearly, so very clearly. Now she wished she had never seen them, had never come to this cursed house, had never married this man, this man who was supposed to have saved her, but of course, that was impossible. But she had married him and come to this house and now she would pay for it.
She couldn’t seem to look away from the painting. How very English were the gables and chimney stacks that rose up the walls and towered beyond the slate roof. Forty gables; she had counted them. And just beyond the house were the old abbey ruins, crumbling with eloquent dignity for nearly four hundred years. Time had etched inexorably into the mortared walls, tumbling countless stone hulks into characterless heaps. But still huge walls stood upright, reaching high into the sky. But one day they would crumble and fall, too. And all because a king had wanted to divorce his queen and marry his leman. But she loved the ruins. Each stone was filled with a past so dark and mysterious that she had at first been afraid to draw near to them. One of those stones would be hauled to the Strafford cemetery to mark the earth where she would lie.
Magdalaine’s opium-clouded mind drew her eyes away, to the wall opposite the bed, to seek out the bizarre carved oak panel—The Dance of Death, it was called. A grotesque skeleton, a blunted sword held high in its bony grip, held dominion over an eerie host of demonic figures, the gaping hollow of its mouth chanting soundless words.
I am so very cold. Why does not someone build up the fire? If only I could burrow down into the covers. I’ll be colder soon but I won’t realize it for I’ll be dead.
Once again Magdalaine’s eyes swept the room, more slowly now, for an uncontrollable lassitude was dragging her down deeper and deeper. Soon there would be no return journey upward. A slow smile spread its way over her face, creasing her smooth cheeks. It was a precise smile, even a triumphant smile.
I have won a final victory over you, my lord husband. I will defeat you with my death.
The smile froze on her lips forming a ludicrous jagged line. An infant’s cry rent the silence.
The bedroom door burst open. “Await me outside. I wish to speak to my wife.”
The doctor straightened slowly. A tall man himself, he drew up to his full height, but the Earl of Strafford seemed to dominate the room. His tone was abrupt, his breathing hard and sharp. The doctor did not release the countess’s wrist from between his long fingers. He said evenly, “I am sorry, my lord, but that will not be possible.”
“Dammit, Branyon, do as I tell you. I want to be alone with my wife. I have questions for her and it is time she answered them. Leave us alone, man. It is my right.”
As the earl strode toward the bed, the doctor saw that his regular features were distorted into a mask of fear and rage. The two together—it was strange and inexplicable, but it was so.
The doctor gently lowered the countess’s hand