Castle of Secrets by Amanda Grange Page B

herself.
    The portraits
began many centuries before. There were maidens in wimples and men in doublet
and hose. There were cavaliers in silk and satin, and ladies in velvet and
lace. There were men in tailcoats and women in panniered gowns; family
portraits and wedding groups; old men and little children. She traced the
progression of family features, from the first Lord Torkrow to the man beside
her.
    There were
several recent paintings of him. The first showed his family: his father and
mother with their three children, two boys and a girl. He and his brother
looked to be about the same age, whilst the girl appeared to be three or four
years younger. His brother was like their mother, with fair hair and blue eyes,
looking like a cherub, whilst he and his sister were dark-haired. His eyes
looked out at her and she was shaken by the change in them. The eyes in the
portrait were not haunted and secretive, as they were now, they were clear and
happy.
    Her gaze moved
on until she stood in front of a portrait of the three children, fully grown,
and dressed in the fashions of a few years previously. It was of the
fair-haired son’s wedding day. Helena remembered what Mrs Beal had said, that Lord Torkrow had no
need to marry because of his brother. She must have meant that, as he had an
heir in his brother, and as his brother looked set to carry on the family line,
Lord Torkrow had no need to marry to provide an heir. Helena looked at the portrait of the bride,
who stood next to his brother. She was a beautiful young woman with soft fair
hair, and she seemed happy.
    What had
happened to the brother? she wondered. Where was he now? Not at school, that
much was clear. So where was he? And where was his wife?
    ‘Do you know
what they call my family in the village?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes,’ she
acknowledged. ‘They call you Stormcrow.’
    She turned
towards him and she was preternaturally aware of him. Though not handsome, his
face was striking, and she found her eyes tracing the lines of his forehead,
nose and mouth. It was not prone to laughter as it had been in his portrait,
and she wondered if it would ever be again.
    ‘Do you know
why they call us that?’ he asked.
    She shook her
head.
    ‘Do you know
what a stormcrow is?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘A stormcrow
is a bird of ill omen,’ he said. ‘It brings bad news.’ He led her over to the
first portrait. It was of a thin, sinewy man in middle age, with bright amber
eyes.
    ‘This is the
first earl. He brought the news of the Yorkist defeat at the Battle of
Bosworth, back to his father. As you can see, he was a man with a thin face and
bright eyes. As he rode across the moors to break the news, a storm followed
him. A crow flying before the coming storm alighted on his shoulder, and they
rode in through the gate together. When it was known what news he brought, an
old man, playing on our name of Torkrow, quipped, Here they are, two
stormcrows .’
    They moved on.
    ‘That is the
second earl,’ he said.
    He stood
behind her. He lifted his hand as they looked at the portrait, and for a
moment, she thought he was going to rest it on her shoulder. She felt an
awareness ripple through her in anticipation of his touch, but instead he
gestured at the painting, and the lack of his touch left her feeling strangely
empty.
    ‘Richard
brought his father the news that his mother was dead, thrown by her palfrey,’
he continued. ‘“My son, you are a true stormcrow,” his father said.’
    Helena looked up at the face of
Richard, who was dressed fashionably for his era, in a slashed doublet and
breeches. He looked carefree.
    ‘He had not
earnt his nickname when this portrait was painted,’ she said.
    ‘No. He had no
idea what was about to happen. He was still happy, then.’
    He moved to
the next portrait. The third earl Stormcrow was standing with his hands on his
hips and with his legs wide apart, looking solid and secure. He was wearing a
doublet that accentuated the width of his