29 - The Oath by Michael Jecks Read Free Book Online

arms had turned and stared at her with such an intensity, it felt as though Harry himself was there. God in Heaven, the accusation she thought she had seen in those eyes . . .
    ‘Hamo!’ she said, and then began to sob, her hands over her face as she slid down the door to the floor.
    ‘What is it, Cecily?’
    She tried to turn away, but the tender concern in his eyes made her feel the guilt again. She saw Little Harry’s face, and as though in a nightmare again, saw the skull shatter, the blood and brains exploding out. ‘Oh, Holy Mother, save me!’
    ‘Speak to me, Cecily,’ the steward said, now seriously concerned. ‘You’ve been getting more and more fretful these last days – what is it?’
    Cecily wept, head covered in her hands. She was aware of tears pouring down both cheeks, and gave a choking sob. But it was no good. Even behind her hands, she could still see the hideous events of that bloody day: the accusing death stare of Arthur Capon, the cold, calculating expression in the murderer’s eyes as he stood and slid his sword into Madame Capon’s breast. The baby . . .
    She must carry her guilt with her to the grave.
    Emma Wrey had heard the weeping, and it was enough to make her put her needlework aside and walk to the doorway. She watched for a moment, frowning as she considered her maidservant. Curious that Cecily had broken down like this. It was the first time she had been so distraught during the day. At night she had often cried herself to sleep, and woken with a yelp of horror or pain, but Emma had assumed that the dark memories would gradually fade.
    It must have been a God-awful shock. Emma didn’t know how she herself would have reacted, seeing her master and mistress cut down before her, the daughter of the house dragged from her bed and stabbed to death, then the child who was her charge slammed against a wall and killed. Those were the sort of things that no one could witness with impunity. They would change a soul. Poor Cecily, she had thought.
    But this recurrence of the maid’s terrors was alarming. There were stories of people who were dreadfully affected by such things, who lived normally for a while and then were prey to fears that drew their lives to an untimely end. Perhaps Cecily was so badly marked by her experiences that her heart would give out.
    No! It would not do!
    ‘Hamo? Hamo ?’
    ‘Mistress?’
    ‘I think a jug of strong wine would be a good idea. Cecily needs fortifying.’
    ‘Of course, mistress,’ Hamo said, walking stiffly from the room.
    ‘Make it good wine. Not the sour stuff, mind.’
    He smiled and nodded.
    When Emma married Master Wrey, she had been alarmed by the sight of this paragon. He was tall, suave and elegant, and had impressed her with his cool appraisal of her before he gave a nod, as though telling himself that while she was not perfect, she was at least young enough to be moderately malleable.
    And perhaps she had proved to be for the first years, until her husband died. When that happened and she found herself thrown into the management of the business, Emma had grown harder and more uncompromising, but still, every so often, she would catch that same measuring look in Hamo’s eyes, and she would see him occasionally give a sign of approval, as if pleased that she had turned out so well; not in a patronising manner, but almost with pride.
    Not that she needed such recognition now. She was content with her position in Bristol and her standing in the financial community. Since Arthur Capon’s death, her business had become one of the leading finance houses in the city.
    ‘Come with me, Cecily,’ Emma said, walking over to the fire and patting the stool beside her. ‘Maid, I’ve heard your tears often enough. What is it that upsets you?’
    Cecily’s eyes were red-rimmed, and at the question, they brimmed with tears again. ‘Mistress, I’m sorry, I didn’t think to upset you. I—’
    ‘Enough, my dear. With all the angels as my