Armored Hearts

chapter 8

Gareth sat at his wing chair. He had asked to take his breakfast in his room. After his restless four hours of sleep, he had no interest in seeing the Kellers or Grandfather. And there was still the archer at large. It might be safer for everyone if the assassin didn’t find them in the same room with him, if the assassin knew he was the Flying Knight.

Sarah brought up Gareth’s tray and placed it on his desk next to the wing chair.

“Mornin’ sir. Ye look a bit frazzled fer so early. Ye na be hurt or feelin’ unwell I hope.” She eyed Gareth up and down as if seeking out an ailment.

“No, I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Happy to hear it.” She nodded and opened the tray and butter dish before pouring tea. She winced and supported her arm with the other. A bandage wrapped around her forearm.

“What’s wrong with your arm?”

Sarah glanced down at the bandage. A strange look came over her before she answered. “Oh, clumsy me. I burnt it whilst cookin’ this mornin’. I put some butter on it before wrappin’ it up.”

Sarah turned to leave, but Gareth stopped her. “Sarah, you and Thompton are from Scotland. So was my mother.”

The ginger-haired woman turned with a grin. “Really? Lord Pensees didna mention that.”

“Not surprising. My father came home from a holiday with a wife who had no family connections. It wasn’t Grandfather’s proudest moment.”

Sarah nodded. “Oh.”

“But I don’t know anything about Scotland or my mother’s family.”

Sarah clapped her hands. “Scotland is beautiful. Especially the highlands where I’m from. The woods there be deep and full of magical creatures.”

“What kinds of creatures?”

“Oh, fairies. They live beyond the wooded curtain which can only be opened to one of their clan.”

Gareth scrunched his forehead. “Fairies? You mean the tiny people with wings?”

Sarah shook her head. “Na, yer thinkin’ of pixies. They be distant cousins of the Fae folk. Fairies be the size of humans, but they do’na fly with wings. They fly by fairy magic. It hits on the eve of adulthood.”

Gareth narrowed his eyes. “Like around twelve years?”

Sarah nodded. “Aye, ’bout then. God wouldna be so daft as to stick a mother with the responsibility of a flying baby.”

“And the magic, can it do anything besides make them fly?”

“Different Fae folk have different gifts. Some can only fly. Some are changelings and can take the form of other people or animals at will. Some are healers. But those are always women of noble birth. And there be the Seelie and Unseelie courts.” Sarah’s face took on a distant, despondent look.

“What’s the difference?”

Sarah started busying herself with putting Gareth’s bed to right as she spoke. “The Seelie be a loving clan. They find nourishment in love and family. They sicken among the land of men, where selfishness and hate rule. They stick to the deep wood, far from all that. The Unseelie tend to na be so organized. They feed off anger and resentment. They make a home among the worst of humans where they grow strong. But because of their very nature of animosity and discord, they be na able to gain strength as a court.”

Gareth’s brow furrowed as he listened. “Are the two courts enemies?”

Sarah nodded. “Aye, but the problem comes when a Seelie becomes Unseelie. All that need happen is to allow bitterness to take root. Unseelies almost never become Seelies, because once the bitterness takes root, it corrupts the soul. It’s na impossible to go back, but ’tis a very hard road.”

Gareth was about to ask another question when a knock sounded on his chamber door. Grandfather stepped in.

“Sarah, do you know where I can find Thompton? I need a carriage ready but he’s not in the stable.”

A forlorn look swept over her face. “Nay, sir. I’m sorry. I have na seen him this mornin’. I’ll go see if I can find him.”

“Please do. His job might not pay well, but he won’t have it much longer if I can’t count on him to be where he’s supposed to be.”

Sarah bowed her head. “Yes, m’lord.”

Her hands trembled by her sides as Grandfather stormed out. She started for the door without looking when Tabitha burst through with her mutt in her arms.

“Sarah, I’m so glad I found you.” Tabitha blew her still loose blonde hair from her face. “I just found Rory in the attic. He’s bleeding.”

Sarah met Tabitha’s gaze, her eyes full of genuine concern. She took the dog from her and held him close. Her eyes closed as she whispered, “Thank ye, Jesus.” She cradled the animal to her as she addressed Tabitha. “Ye go on and finish getting’ dressed while I treat his wounds with some a me herbs. Can ye manage without me while I take care of the dog?”

Tabitha’s blue eyes were still moist. “I can dress myself. Do you think he’ll be ok?” She nodded toward her dog, Rory.

Sarah smiled. “Aye. He’ll be just fine once he be treated with me herbs. That and a bit a rest. He will be up and ‘bout in na time.”

Sarah walked out the door with dog in arms. Gareth heard her whispering what sounded like, “I love ye so much. Ye had me comin’ out me skin with worry.”

Gareth started on his eggs when he noticed Tabitha watching him. He set down his fork. “What?”

Tabitha grinned. “Congratulations.”

Gareth rolled his eyes. “Oh that. Congratulations to you and your future as an American.”

“I think Jessamine is perfect for you. You have a very good chance at happiness with her.”

He waved his hands toward her in a shooing gesture. “Would you go and let me eat in peace? Talking about my intended is making me lose my appetite.”

Tabitha shook her head as she made her way out, closing the door behind her.

***

Gareth wheeled himself up the ramp to Mr. Strong’s door and knocked. There wasn’t any answer, so he knocked again. Still no answer. Gareth was about to turn his chair around and leave when he noticed a smudge on the door frame. A red-brown thumbprint. Blood.

Memories of the night before flashed before his eyes. The blood in the forest. Mr. Strong’s house lit up in the middle of the night. Gareth’s eyes darted, and he made sure no one was watching. Then he flew from his chair and backed away from the door, just before flying at it with his shoulder. He bumped into the door and fell back against his chair. He shot up, away, and did it again. This time the door gave.

Gareth flew in and stopped. Right in the middle of the floor was a pool of blood. Gareth glanced around and noticed the desk, chair, and cupboard were all overturned. Papers and swords littered the floor.

Gareth flew to the kitchen. “Mr. Strong?” he called as loud as he could. The kitchen chairs had been turned over and much of the countertop items scattered. He flew for the bedroom and pushed the door open. The mattress lay bare. Not even a sheet or blanket.

Gareth hovered around the house. His many thoughts rushed through his mind in a jumble. Where was Mr. Strong? Was that his blood? Was Mr. Strong involved in the attempt on his life? He shook his head at the idea. The man had plenty of chances to kill him during swordplay.

But he was quite skilled in swords. Perhaps he knew archery, as well. Or was Mr. Strong a victim, caught up in the middle of this? Maybe he had tangled with whoever had tried to kill Gareth last night? Had the old man been tortured and murdered for knowing him?

Panic rose and his heart raced. Gareth flew out to the porch and shut the door before getting in his chair and heading back to the manor, posthaste.

There would be a wedding in a few days. If he could just make sure Tabitha and Grandfather stayed safe until then, they would leave and be away from whatever was going on. Then there would only be Jessamine, Sarah, and Thompton. Sarah and Thompton would be easy. He’d fire them. With no servants and a grouch for a husband, surely Jessamine would be back to America in a hurry.

He pushed the wheels harder. The rocks and loose dirt crunched as he rolled over them.

But there was still the question of why someone tried to kill Gareth and why the assassin seemed to have the ability to fly. Why could Gareth fly? He knew the answer was connected to his mother and Scotland somehow. He’d have to arrange a trip there to find out more about the Fae and where his mother came from.

Gareth wheeled into the house through the back kitchen entrance. Rory was on a pallet resting. The side where he’d been bleeding earlier sported an herbal poultice.

Gareth reached down and petted the mutt. “Looks like you had a rough night, too.”

The dog whined.

“I’m sorry you were hurt. Did the archer attack you? Is no one I keep company with safe? Not even the dog?”

Gareth’s gut wrenched at the thought of whatever had become of Mr. Strong. Was there any chance the man still lived? Gareth had to hope. He couldn’t bear the thought of the man dead. But what of the amount of blood at his house?

Nausea rolled over Gareth at the pictures in his imagination. What had become of Mr. Strong?

Bile rose again. Gareth clamped his hand over his mouth and made his way back to the door. He was sick in a patch of grass. It wasn’t just the remembrance of the pooled blood but the stress of it all. He needed to figure all this out. On his own. There was no one he could share this with. Jessamine was the only other person who knew about the archer, but she wasn’t someone he could confide in. How would Grandfather react if he was told? Tabitha was leaving for a happy life in America. Why bring her down into it?

Gareth wiped his mouth and made his way back to the house. Rory stared at him, a look of sympathy in the dog’s eyes.

“I’m all right boy. You just rest and heal. No need burdening you with my problems either.”

Gareth made his way to the stairs where he listened for any stirring. Only the ticking of the grandfather clock broke the silence. He took the chance and flew up the stairs to his room. Once inside, he made his way to his trunk and pulled out the claymore. He slashed it overhead, spinning and turning as he went. He took his practice to the air. It still felt heavy in his hands. If he was at war, he needed to be battle ready for his next flight out.