“Oh, mercy,” she murmured. “I haven’t been carried like this since my honeymoon. Richard used to tease me by taking me off my feet. I’m not sure I should allow you—”
“There’s not much wrong with her,” the doctor said to Kate over his shoulder.
“It’s Richard who wants looking after,” Lady Mary said. “What’s wrong with him?” the doctor asked, half joking. “He looked very fit when I saw him in the village yesterday, trotting along the street on that fine gray horse of his!”
“I’m frightened.”
She closed her eyes and repeated in a whisper. “Very frightened. He’s — odd.”
“Odd?” The doctor’s voice was quiet and the mirth gone.
“He … he looked at me as though he hadn’t seen me before. … And he shut a … a door in my face. When I called he …he … didn’t answer.”
“Was he down in the dungeon, too?”
“No. I ran down … when he wouldn’t open the … the door … there’s an old stone staircase that leads into the … the … the …”
“The what?”
“I don’t know. A sort of room—”
Lady Mary fell silent. Dr. Broomhall’s eyes met Kate’s in a significant glance. Something is wrong here, the glance said. She nodded. They had arrived at the door of Lady Mary’s room. Kate opened it and he carried her in and laid her upon the bed. But she sat up suddenly and cried out.
“Richard!”
For there Sir Richard stood in the middle of the room, as though he were waiting for her entrance.
“My dear,” he said, coming forward. “Where have you been? I’ve looked everywhere for you. One of the men said he saw you coming in this direction and so I came here, only to find you gone.”
“Richard,” she whispered, staring at him as though he were a ghost. “Why did you lock the panel?”
He lifted his brushy red-gray eyebrows. “Panel? What panel?”
“Richard, don’t pretend!”
“I’m not pretending, my dear. It’s you — you don’t feel well, obviously — Doctor, she’s not well.”
Before the doctor could agree, there was a knock at the half-open door and John Blayne entered.
“Ah, you found her,” he said. “The men told me you were lost, Lady Mary. They’ve all been looking for you. Where was she, Kate?”
“In the dungeon,” Kate said gravely.
“Good God!” Sir Richard exclaimed. “When will you give up that absurd treasure hunt? You might have fallen — the stone floors are slippery with damp — you’ve got a chill. Lie down, dear.”
He pushed Lady Mary gently back on the pillows and chafed her hands and reproached Kate the while.
“Kate, how could you let her out of your sight?”
“She said you had shut her out somewhere,” Kate said bluntly.
“I shut her out? How absurd — I was here all the time,” Sir Richard said, “Why did she run to the dungeon?”
“We had been down there before,” Kate faltered. “To … to look for the treasure.”
“You weren’t serious!” John exclaimed. “I thought it was all in joke.”
“We were serious!” Kate said. She looked from one face to the other and flushed.
“At Lady Mary’s age—” the doctor began but Sir Richard cut him off.
“It’s not a matter of age. She’s always had strange notions about — well, yes, perhaps it’s been worse lately. … Kate, let there be no more nonsense about a treasure. I won’t have her worried. It’s my responsibility — How is she, Doctor?”
The doctor had been examining Lady Mary, her eyes, her pulse, and now he took a powder from his case which stood on the floor where he had left it.
“She’s had a mild shock of some kind,” he said, “and she wants rest. Take this now, Lady Mary. It’s only a mild sedation. You’ll sleep for a bit and wake, feeling better. I suggest that we all leave the room. She’s having too much excitement,”
“I shan’t leave her,” Sir Richard said with decision.
“Very well, then the rest of us,” the doctor said. “I’ll call again later in the day.”
He led the way, John and Kate following, and they walked softly out of the room. Sir Richard drew a chair to the bedside and sat down. He stroked her hand gently and Lady Mary looked at him with pleading, doubting eyes.
“Was I dreaming, Richard?” she said faintly. “Didn’t you … weren’t you … behind the panel when I—”
He interrupted her. “My dear, you are simply to stop worrying. I shall attend to everything. In due course, I’ll take care of everything. Close your eyes, you’re safe in your own room, in our own home, our castle—”
“I don’t think it was a dream.”
“One has all sorts of dreams — there’s nothing wrong with dreams,” Sir Richard said.
His voice was far away and she could only just hear what he said. But perhaps it did not matter, perhaps it was true that she had only dreamed. He would take care of her … And she drifted away into a realm of peace.
And Sir Richard sat there beside her, stroking her hand rhythmically, lovingly, and murmuring to her with tenderness as he gazed at her sleeping face.
“You’re so pale, poor darling … I must take care of you. And I can, I’ve kept it a secret from you — I still can’t tell you.”
He leaned toward her, his face close to hers. “Do you hear me, my love?”
Her eyelids would not open. They were too heavy to lift. She could not speak. This unutterable weariness, lying like a weight of lead on her body — she could only hear his voice echoing in her ears.
“She doesn’t hear,” he was muttering. “Just as well … the crown is my responsibility … my fault … I’m a weakling. I should have dealt with my enemies the way Father did, with a sword! … I’ve waited too long. I was afraid to be called a monster as he was, poor crippled king! But I’ll be worthy of my name at last — Richard the Fourth!”
He dropped her hand and left her side and began to pace about the room aimlessly, stooping to stare at the bowl of spring flowers on a small desk of rosewood, at the silver brushes on the dressing table, at his own photograph, himself as a young man, framed in gold and hung on the eastern wall.
“Handsome, I suppose — I was called that — even my father — But he said I was weak. I wasn’t, I’m not — he was a monster — no, not a monster. He knew how to deal with people. I don’t — I don’t want to — but you must be strong — you must—”
He leaned toward the photograph and stared into his own gay young face.
“You’re weak — weak — hiding yourself, not telling even your queen! She’s lying there on the bed — ill, unconscious — your daughter defiled — even your son killed by foreigners, your only son — alone in London — an outpost — why wasn’t he here in the castle — safe? You didn’t dare — you and your secrets — you let the prince be killed — the foreigner is here — here in the castle where you’ve been hiding all these years. I hate you!”
He smashed the picture with his fist. The glass broke and crashed to the floor. He stood staring at the ruins.
“My father’s sword,” he muttered.
From far away Lady Mary heard the crash. She struggled upward against the enveloping darkness of sleep. She opened her eyes and saw him turn blindly toward the door, his face flushed, his eyes unseeing. She forced herself to cry out.
“Richard, Richard — you’re—”
Ill was what she wanted to say—Richard, you’re ill. Come, let me care for you. Someone come and help us both. She thought she had screamed but her voice had not left her throat. She tried to get up, to run after him, and could not move. She was pulled back into sleep and unconsciousness.