Shadow Rider. Kathrynn Dennis

his Lady Roselynn and the baby John had not.

      The white-haired, frail-looking steward belched and tittered.

      Guy shook his head. This was the man he’d left accountable for running Baldwin Manor in the months after Roselynn’s death? ’Twould seem Dunback, once capable and honest, had done little more than drink himself into a stupor while he hid from winter’s grip and talked with private ghosts.

      Guy searched his soul for patience. The last time Dunback had been questioned about that night, he’d collapsed into a rambling fit and begged for his life. The agony of having one who knew the answers but who could not reveal them, set Guy’s blood coursing.

      He ran his hand through his hair. The last of his sister’s spinning wheel caught fire and collapsed into the ashes.

      Sybilla stepped back from the hearth, her eyes wide and worried. She sent Guy what he guessed was a silent plea for compassion.

      Guy folded his arms. No sense in harboring ill will toward a mindless old man whose days were numbered, judging by the redness of his nose and the jaundiced pallor of his cheeks. “I must thank you, Dunback, for watching over the place in my absence. Where have you been sleeping? Upstairs?”

      “No, sir! You know the Lady Roselynn and her babe sleep up there. I’ve made my pallet here, sir, where you used to sleep, right here by the fire.” He lowered his bleary eyes and wrung his hands. “I only burned what I needed to stay warm,” he continued, as if he still had wits enough to know he’d be reprimanded for using furniture for kindling.

      He limped over to the foal. “How ’bout I watch him for you? We’ll keep each other warm.” He patted Regalo on the rump, as if there was nothing odd at all about a foal sleeping hearthside in the great hall. Dunback stretched out beside him and rested his head on the colt’s withers.

      Sybilla smiled.

      Simon pulled the cork from the wine. “Before you leave us for your drunken dreams, where’s the food?”

      Dunback interlaced his fingers and rested his hands on his chest. “A good hunk of bread, pottage and a little wine is all I need. But I reckon you’ll be hungry after fighting for the king. There be dried eel out in the kitchen if you want some. But no eggs. I ate the chickens.” He closed his eyelids and his eyes sank deep into their sockets. Mouth open, he snored.

      Guy picked his cloak from the floor and tossed it over the old man and the foal. “Simon, we’ve yet to break our fast. Would you—”

      “Get the food? Anything else?” He shot a beleaguered glance at Sybilla, as if to say please release me from my duties.

      Sybilla averted her eyes, avoiding contact with Guy’s. “I’ll help. Which way to the kitchen?”

      Without waiting for an answer, she started toward the great door.

      Guy caught her by the wrist. “Oh, no you don’t. It’s blizzarding outside and you’re already wet and cold. If you catch lung fever, who’ll take care of him?” He pointed at Regalo. “Simon knows where the kitchen is. You and I can search for dry clothes and blankets.”

      Simon pulled his hood up and stomped from the hall. “I’ll be back soon. If I’m not, come find me.”

      Guy lifted a tallow torch and held the cobwebbed rushes to the fire. Raising the smoky light high, he headed for the narrow spiral stairway at the end of the room. “This way, Mistress Corbuc.”

      He kept his back to Sybilla and paused at the foot of the stairs. Looking up, he gripped the staircase railing with his cold-stiffened hand. At the top of the landing was the private apartment once occupied by his good-hearted sister, her doting, aged husband, and a cantankerous one-eared kitten. The thought of their laughter, the warmth and light that once graced the darkened room made his head hurt.

      A shadowy form, ephemeral, feminine and sad, suddenly floated across the landing and disappeared through the door that led into the chambers.

      Sweat trickled down the back of Guy’s neck. God in heaven, Roselynn’s ghost is here—just like Dunback said.

      Guy swore an oath beneath his breath. He should leave this place. No need to confront the past. He’d no fear of Roselynn’s ghost, but he’d no need to invite the memories back. He glanced over his shoulder. Mistress Corbuc was still there, waiting. If she’d seen Roselynn’s specter, she said naught of it.

      Guy put one foot on the first step. Then he halted.