"Indeed I would have, an I could have." The ghost smiled sadly. "Yet I died ere she did, in battle. My spirit surged toward Heaven, yet slowed and tarried; my concern for her did bind me back to earth. Yet in all else I longed for the mede of the Blessed, and so I hung, poised between this earthly mansion and the one above, until at last her longing for me grew to terror, and drew me back to this castle—at the moment that her spirit stepped forth from her clay. Yet she could not see me, for her whole being was consumed with weeping, as it hath been ever since."

"The poor lass!" Cordelia cried, and Gwen said,

"Was her soul so filled with anguish, then, that she could not break free?"

"Aye, and ever hath been. I have slumbered by, for when death passed, her craving for my presence ceased; she was so filled with horror that there was room for naught else. Only now have I awaked—and I must needs find some way to ease my child's rest!"

Rod rolled out of his blanket and beckoned to his children. "Up. Everybody up. Now it's my mission, too."

"But their rest!" Gwen protested.

"I think we'll have better luck sleeping during the day, dear. Fewer interruptions, you know?" Rod turned back to the ghost. "Name the villain."

Fires licked at the backs of the spectre's eyes. "The Count."

"But I thought he whipped his son into line. Did he turn around and commit the same crimes himself?"

"Nay—he died. And the son became Count in his turn—the last Count Foxcourt, and the final scion of an evil line."

"Evil line?" Rod frowned. "It sounded as though his father had some morals."

"True, but only what was needful to bind his knights unto his service—and to be sure that none could have their will, save he."

"Oh." Rod translated. "So his son couldn't bundle the knights' daughters into bed, because that was Dad's prerogative—only Dad wouldn't do it, because he needed to have his knights stay loyal."

"Aye, but his son had not so much wisdom. Bad blood will tell—and in him, it fairly howled. All his grandfathers had preyed upon the folk within their demesne, in all ways that they could, without inciting rebellion; they seized upon each chance for cruelty, every means of exploitation. Thus were they named as they were."

"What—Foxcourt?" Rod said. "Doesn't sound all that evil."

"Nay—that was but the sound the peasants gave it, till only we, whose forebears had been knights to that first Count, did remember its first form; for his neighbors dubbed him with the name that he, in insolence, took up in pride: Faux Coeur.''

The French vowel and "r" made all the difference; Rod's eyes widened. "False heart!"

"Quite false, in truth, for he was a man who would, for profit, swear to any oath, then be forsworn upon the instant. He would speak bravely as he led his troops out; yet would hang back behind while they did fight. Oh, false he was in words and deed, speaking fair and smiling sweetly, then wreaking every cruelty he could—and all his heirs were like him. Yet this last Count swore to outdo them all. He did not even deign to marry—what cared he for the future of his House?—but set out to seduce all women. Harsh-faced he was, but bore himself with a swagger, and spoke in honeyed tones, and wenches swooned when he came near."

Rod nodded. "Combination of a certain animal attraction, and money. Works on naive serving-wenches, every time."

"Thou hast known the kind."

"Yes—but I've also noticed their blandishments don't very often work on ladies of their own station."

"Oh, he scrupled not to seek out other ways than wooing! By fair means or foul, he would seduce each lady that he could bring within his power, then spurn her from him, to dwell in shame—and several slew themselves. He only gloated."

"Why, what a thorough villain!" Cordelia said in indignation.

"And he used his tricks on your daughter."

"Aye, for she was young, and very beauteous—and he, though a youth no longer, had taken womanizing as his foremost pastime. I sought to keep her from his sight, yet he did make a progress through his lands anon—I think more to espy out wenches than to be sure his bailiffs dealt honestly—and called in turn at each knight's house. He knew the number of my children, and summoned all before him—and when he saw her beauty, there was no restraining him."

"You could have taken them and fled!" Cordelia protested.

"Aye, yet I was bound by mine oath of fealty—the more fool I, for this Count did not feel bound by any oath of his! Yet when his man did come bearing his command to go unto his castle to attend upon him, and with all my family, I did say, 'Nay.' Within a fortnight, he did declare a war on Count Moline, and bade me forth unto the fray."

"Ah!" Geoffrey's eyes glowed. "That command thou couldst not ignore, for 'twas the essence of thy knighthood!"

" 'Tis even as thou sayest." The knight bowed his head. "And he set me in the front rank, to be slain in the first charge—yet did not trust to fortune; for at the moment when my lance struck home 'gainst my opponent, a bolt did strike through mine armor 'neath my shoulder blade."

"From behind!" Geoffrey cried. "Ah, what scurvy knave of an archer did that for him?"

"I know not, yet I misdoubt me an his pay was aught than death, for only a fool of a lord would chance his other knights' learning of such foul treachery. The barb pierced home, and I did swoon, and was mindful of naught else, till I did step forth from my mortal part."

"And went straight up to be caught between your duties and your rewards." Rod nodded. "So you don't even know what happened to your daughter."

"Only that she was driven to death by one means or another, and that my son was gone."

"Son?" Magnus looked up. "Nay, surely! He must needs be removed, or he would do all to prevent his lord from reaching to his sister!"

Cordelia turned to gaze at Magnus with a musing frown.

"Even so," the knight agreed. "He was a goodly lad, and would ward his folk from every harm. Nay, surely he must needs have been banished or murdered—and I have no doubt that his soul ascended on the instant of his death, for he was indeed a goodly lad."

"And thy daughter's spirit saw thee not?"

"Nay; she is ever incoherent in her grief. I did seek revenge and, I hoped, arresting of the Count's misdeeds, by haunting him; yet I had died without great anger, for I'd had little cause ere then, and my spirit lacked its fullest strength; and for his part, the last Foxcourt cared only for himself and his fleshly pleasures, and perceived little enough of others' feeling, and certainly naught of ghosts."

"Too insensitive to be haunted," Rod said, with disgust.

" 'Tis even so." Suddenly, the ghost was kneeling, with a spectral clanking. "I beseech thee, as one father to another—aid me! Find some means of bringing my child to the rest she merits! Avenge her murder!"

Rod's face hardened. "I don't deal in revenge."

"Art thou a craven? Why, then, pox upon thee! May thou forever be…"

"Nay, hear my father," Gregory said quietly, and, for a wonder, the ghost stilled at his words. He frowned down at Gregory, then looked up at Rod. "What means he?"

"He knows why I won't try for revenge," Rod said. "It bogs you down, keeps you from going on to make the most of yourself. The goal here is to give your daughter's spirit eternal rest, and her chance to finish her journey on the road to Heaven. If, in the process, the final Count finds himself on the receiving end of some of the cruelty he wreaked while he was alive—well and good; but that's only a byproduct."

"Yet tell us this." Magnus stood, puzzled. "How may a ghost be hurt?"

The knight sighed and seemed to grow dimmer. "I know not.''

"The last Count is now but spirit," Gregory spoke up, "yet may feel spirits' pain. In truth, 'tis the agony of the soul that may yet redeem him, for if he comes to realize the pain that he hath caused, then may he yet repent."