It had occurred to him. But he had seen more of the world than his brother. Her features bespoke not mestizo or mulatto, but Andalusian, from the southern lands of Spain, where centuries ago Christians and Moors had intermingled.
“Even if her blood is free of taint,” Wesley added, “she is a servant and entirely unconnected in society except for her sister’s extraordinary marriage to Lycombe.”
“And I am the bastard son of a Catholic profligate. How do you suppose I am enjoying the insult you are dealing her with this patronizing show of false concern for me, brother?”
“I have said none of this to her, of course.”
The darkness had become complete, and with the gathering blackness the cold seeped more mercilessly into Vitor’s blood, making him sluggish.
“What did you wish to say to me when you summoned me up the mountain, Vitor?”
“I did not wish to say anything. I wished to beat you to a pulp and leave you for the vultures.”
“Ah. Violence from my monastic brother.” He sounded thoughtful. “But I suppose there is a first time for everything. Remarkable that a girl should inspire it.”
“A lady.”
For a moment his brother said nothing, then: “A lady.”
“Did you drug the wine you brought her?”
“Drug? Why, no.” Wesley’s surprise sounded sincere. “Was she ill?”
“Where did you find the bottle?”
“In the butler’s pantry.”
Vitor had not believed his brother put the poison in the wine. His methods of chastisement had never been trickery, and only once had they resorted to secrecy.
The muffled sound of rain came down the cellar shaft now, at first in patters, then faster, angrier, as though it sought to wash away the snow in a flood. Vitor’s head was heavy, the bruise throbbing, every one of his muscles sore. He closed his eyes upon the darkness and listened to the rain.
“It was I.”
Sleep snatched at Vitor. “Huh?” he mumbled.
“I was the man in the belly of that ship off Nantes. The man on the other end of the knife.”
Vitor drew a long breath and rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. “For God’s sake. I know that.”
His brother’s sharp inhale sounded through the stillness.
“Enlightened men do not employ the tactics of medieval inquisitors, Wesley. Have the lessons of the great men of our age entirely passed you by?”
“It was not by my design that I did what I did to you.” His voice was tight.
Vitor turned his head as though he might see his brother through the blackness. “How could you have believed treason of me?”
“I didn’t. They did. You had not lived in England for a decade. Your loyalties were for a foreign king.”
“An ally.”
“In France they lost sight of you.”
“And because of that they believed me a traitor? How simple the minds of Englishmen are. How foolishly black and white. He is a son of the kingdom or he is a treasonous spy.” She is a servant or she is a lady.
“My superiors would not listen to me. They believed that because of our bond you would confess to me without . . . unnecessary force. I told them they were fools to believe you would ever say a word, force or not. To no avail.” He paused for a long moment. “But when you said nothing, spoke not a word in that horrid cabin of that wretched ship, despite how they—I—threatened you, I began to mistrust you. It was again like . . .”
“When she lied to you.”
“Your proud, stubborn silence allowed me to believe in her lies.” Wesley’s voice had stiffened.
“Blame me all you wish, brother. It will not change the truth that on that ship you broke both the law and my faith in you.”
“I regretted it even as I obeyed their orders, Vitor. I did it for England but I suffered. It was as painful for me as for you.”
Vitor rubbed the scar between his thumb and forefinger. “I doubt it.”
“Is that why you wished to meet with me this morning? To repay me?” His voice shook.
“You know me so little.”
There was another stretched silence during which the damp cold of rainy mist settled on Vitor’s hair and skin.
“I blamed you because she did not love me,” Wesley said. “I was furious. She did not want me, so I blamed you for it.”
Vitor understood. Even two years at the top of a mountain in Portugal had not cured his anger entirely. But perhaps he had always been angry. Perhaps he had been running since he was fifteen and left the only home he knew. Not seeking adventure. Running from shame into dangers again and again not because his fathers asked but because nothing else drove the anger away.
Then there came a moment during the war when, weary of running, he had finally returned to Airedale, to the family he had abandoned. He might have stopped running then.
“I did nothing to encourage her.” Fannie Walsh had needed no encouragement. He had put her off firmly, informed the marquess of the matter, and left for Portugal, where Raynaldo had again sent him into war. “I did what you would have done in my place.”
“I know. Father told me.”
“And yet you still hated me for it.”
“I was blind to reason.” Wesley’s voice muffled. “Until now. Until this week . . .”
Until Arielle Dijon.
Vitor understood that well enough.
Neither of them spoke for some time.
“Do you wish to fight me now?” Wesley finally said. “With my useless arm and gimp ankle it will be a brief scuffle. But if it will satisfy you, I shall make my best effort at defending myself.”
“Thank you, no. I don’t fight injured men. Even if I did, the tilt of this floor would make it an uncomfortable endeavor.”
“Mm. I daresay.”
“Wes, we are going to die here.”
“We are.”
Vitor drew a slow breath. “You first.”
“No, you. I insist.”
“As the eldest, you deserve the honor.”
“Vitor.” Wesley’s voice was sober again. “If I die now and you are rescued, and you succeed to our father’s titles, there is something you should know.”
He waited.
“I am no more Airedale’s son than you.”
Vitor lifted his head.
“Father could not give her a child,” Wesley said. “They wanted children, desperately, he no less than she. He asked her to do it. He begged for years before she agreed to it. Together she and he chose our fathers, men both of them respected, and of noble blood so that if it should ever become known and we lost all, at least we would not feel the full shame of it. She was never unfaithful to him. Not as you have believed.”
Vitor sat stunned. It did not undo the years of knowing that he was not a true Courtenay and of imagining his mother’s inconstancy. But there was some measure of peace to be had in knowing.
“Who was he?” he finally asked. “The first?”
“It hardly matters now. He is long since gone. A naval hero. Died in sea battle. Enormously wealthy but not even a lord in his own right. A second son. How do you like that for irony, young demi-princeling?”
“Well enough, bastard.”
Astoundingly, Wesley chuckled.
For a long while there was nothing but the muted driving rain above and the trickle of chill water somewhere closer by and solid darkness wrapping about them like a pall. Vitor no longer felt pain in his knuckles or his shoulders, and where the bruise rose on his skull was only a numb throbbing. He dozed and listened for voices, hooves, cart wheels—for anything that might announce a person nearby. The rain drowned out all.