Exile’s Bane by Nicole Margot Spencer Page B

walked into. But my memory of this house was a cheery, bright, well-kept home and so it was a shock when I walked into the dim house. The stench of decay nearly stopped my breath. I had not realized how much I had relaxed while in Duncan’s company until concern for my surroundings set off my anxieties again.
    Relieved to find her safe, I embraced Peg.
    “I see ye found him.”
    I nodded, but kept my silence.
    “I don’t like the look of that man,” Thomas grumbled. He strutted around like a dislodged hero.
    “Open the curtain. It’s dark as a tomb in here.” I walked over to the table and reached for the thin muslin fabric.
    “Don’t do that. People will be able to see in.” Thomas followed and slapped my hand away.
    I could appreciate his position, with Roundheads in the town close by. With distaste, I looked around the disheveled room, at the cold fireplace in the far corner. When my eyes acclimated, I saw that a pallet sat in front of the hearth stone. Large chunks of wood, peat and faggots were heaped up alongside it. Closer to the door, under the curtained window, was a table with a burning candle in a wooden holder. There were two chairs and an empty corner beyond. On the wall perpendicular to the entry was a door blocked off by timbers nailed across it. That door had led to the bedrooms the last time I was in the house. On the back wall stood a big barreled cistern, a large hutch, and beside it an enormous wooden chair. Shelter, it was, but hopefully not for long.
    I turned to Thomas, who impatiently awaited my attention. “I need your help.”
    “Yes, Peg told me.” He studied his fingernails at length in the low light, this way, then that, and finally turned about in an open-armed swirl. “What do you need? I and my humble home are at your command.”
    “Why is the door shut off? Is it safe here?”
    “Of course.” He had followed me around the table and stood now before the big carved chair, that odd chair that had always been in the house. “Why do you think I keep the curtain closed? It makes the place look abandoned from the outside.”
    His air of grievous hurt touched me. I gave him a gentle hug.
    “Anything for you, dear Elena.” He stepped back, grasped my hand and kissed it; the same old Thomas, dramatic to the core.
    I took a deep breath and plunged into the necessity of our visit. “I must petition the King.”
    His face blanched, and he swallowed with difficulty. “The King? Why—”
    “The King?” Peg interrupted. “Whatever for?”
    “King Charles is known for upholding the rights of widows and orphans,” I insisted to the two of them, who stood gawking at me as though I were the village idiot.
    “What did Devlin do to bring you to this?”
    “I told ye, dunce. He disinherited her,” Peg said, with a frown.
    “Ah, yes. You did tell me.” He sat down on the big chair and puffed his chest out in importance, ready to hold court. After a quick bite at his thumb nail, he slowly stretched his right arm to rest it magnanimously on the wide chair arm. “This turn of events does not surprise me. For my part, I think we should send off your petition to the King, go back to Tor House and confront the bastard.” He stood up in haste. “Demand your rights, publicly.”
    “It be ‘we,’ now?” Peg asked, always one to trip Thomas up, if she got the chance. Like it was when we were young, the three of us playing catch-all in the courtyard.
    “No,” I said. “That would in all likelihood get us killed or imprisoned.” I had forgotten Thomas’ unthinking tendency to jump into whatever opportunity presented itself.
    The room grew chilly. I clenched my cloak tight around me and approached the hearth, but the stones were cold and the dark maw heaped with white ash. Unable to stand or sit still, I went over to the hutch’s top cabinet that used to be bursting with fresh-baked bread, eggs, fruit, and cheeses, to find no more than a deep layer of dust in an empty cabinet.
    I