Fairy Tale Romance Collection

by Melanie Dickerson

  Ranulf nodded.

  Not wishing to intrude, Annabel lingered behind Mistress Eustacia as the woman pulled up a stool for Annabel beside Lord le Wyse’s chair.

  “My lord?” Mistress Eustacia clasped her hands, bending toward him.

  He looked up.

  “Annabel is here to see to your bandages.”

  He turned his eye on her. She couldn’t help searching his face for signs of his mood, but his features were unreadable. She cast her gaze to the floor before he or Sir Clement thought her insolent.

  Lord le Wyse turned to his companion and held up his bandaged arm.

  Sir Clement shook his head and waved his hand. “Pray, do not let me hinder you from what you need to do. Pretend I’m not here.”

  Lord le Wyse turned his chair to face Annabel’s stool. She took the bandages from Mistress Eustacia, breathing easier when she saw that her hand did not shake. Surprisingly, a measure of calm descended over her as she drew near to her lord.

  She unwrapped the bandage from his arm. Dipping a cloth in the cold water Mistress Eustacia had brought her and holding him by the wrist, she washed the sticky honey from his arm. As ever, Lord le Wyse sat perfectly still.

  She held his arm up to the candlelight to get a better look at the burns. Sir Clement said nothing, but Annabel felt his eyes on her. His gaze flitted from Lord le Wyse’s face to hers and back again.

  She concentrated on her lord’s arm as he and Sir Clement began discussing the weather. The burns on his arm still looked far from healed.

  Lord le Wyse’s left hand was much different from the right — she couldn’t help but compare the two. The fingers of his maimed hand seemed smaller, and they were drawn inward. Long, pale scars cut through the dark hair on the back of his hand and halted above his wrist. He had once called himself beastly. But the scars only reminded her of his selfless act, of how he had saved a human being, someone who was beneath his social station.

  As she always did, she supported his arm with her left hand while she carefully used her cloth to clean around the edges of the burn, to remove the sticky residue of the honey from the healthy skin. For the first time, she was very aware of his skin on hers. Her palm tingled against the warmth of his arm.

  “How does it look?” Sir Clement asked, leaning forward. “Do you think it’s healing?”

  “It seems to be improving.”

  She realized she’d begun bandaging his arm and had forgotten to put the honey on first. “Oh.” She began unwrapping. Her face grew hotter and her hands shook.

  “Honey?” Mistress Eustacia asked.

  “Yes.” The honey would help keep gangrene from setting in while keeping the scab from becoming hard, making the scarring less severe.

  Lord le Wyse didn’t deserve any more scars. He’d already been hurt enough.

  She clumsily poured the honey over his arm, and a glob dripped off the side and plopped onto the floor.

  “I’ll clean it.” Mistress Eustacia bent and wiped at the mess.

  So much for being ignored and treated like a stick of firewood. She was the center of everyone’s attention.

  Annabel concentrated on wrapping the wound quickly without making any more mistakes. Her lord assisted her by holding his arm higher or lower, as the need arose. But Sir Clement’s stares made her wish someone would speak and break the awful silence.

  She tied the bandage in place. Her task was finished.

  Lord le Wyse turned to Sir Clement. “It is my custom to have my servant read to me every evening.”

  “By all means, go about your usual activities.”

  They all migrated toward the fireplace, and Mistress Eustacia pulled up a chair for Annabel. When Lord le Wyse placed the large Bible in Annabel’s hands, she opened it to the page where they had stopped the last evening.

  Mistress Eustacia quietly backed out of the room.

  Annabel began to read, forming the words deliberately and dispassionately, concentrating on reading well for her lord and his guest. Soon, she found herself so immersed in what she was reading she forgot she wasn’t alone, until she paused to ponder what she had just read.

  She glanced up, catching Lord le Wyse watching her, and Sir Clement watching him. The coroner’s expression reminded her of a dog who had cornered a rabbit in its hole.

  Peculiar that she should have such a thought.

  She read on, stumbling over the first few words before getting into a rhythm again.

  Sooner than usual, Lord le Wyse interrupted her. “That will be enough for tonight.”

  She sent him a questioning look, but he turned away from her.

  Trying to fit into her servant role, she waited until Lord le Wyse lifted the book, keeping her head bowed, and curtsied before leaving the room.

  Ranulf waited. Would Clement say what he was thinking or keep it to himself?

  “Who is the young maiden?”

  “A servant, Annabel Chapman, from Glynval.”

  “How did she come to be in your service?”

  “An unpaid debt her family owed.” Ranulf eyed the coroner.

  “Very comely lass, isn’t she?”

  The hair on the back of Ranulf’s neck prickled. “She is my servant.” He hoped to infuse his voice with just enough warning.

  “Is she, perhaps, more than a servant to you?”

  “Nay. Why would you ask such a question?” Ranulf kept his voice low.

  “No reason.”

  “She grew up not as a servant but as a merchant’s daughter.”

  “I knew some such thing must be the case, since she is able to read.”

  “And as her lord, I have a duty to protect her —”

  “You need have no fear on that score, not from me.” Sir Clement smiled in amusement, his hands motionless in his lap. Only his sharp eyes moved. “As your duty is to provide for and protect your servants, my duty is to ask questions.”

  “Of course.”

  Ranulf tried to focus his thoughts and keep alert. Had he already revealed more to the coroner than he’d intended? He should not have allowed Annabel to read to him tonight. The coroner had taken the opportunity to read his thoughts. He should have stared at the floor, anywhere but her winsome face as she read the Scriptures.

  “Tell me, what was Annabel’s relationship to the bailiff?”

  “Relationship? There was no relationship.”

  “Had either of them spoken to you about the other?”

  How could the man know to ask the very question that he couldn’t evade without an outright lie, and that would sink Annabel deep into suspicion?

  Ranulf had no choice but to answer. “Yes. The bailiff had asked to wed Annabel, but she didn’t wish to marry him.”

  “And this was when?”

  “Not more than two weeks ago.”

  “Did the lass give any reason for her disinterest in the bailiff’s request?”

  “She did not like the bailiff.”

  “She said as much?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you said?”

  “That she didn’t have to marry anyone she didn’t wish to.”

  “And how did the bailiff take the news?”

  “He said very little.”

  “But your impression of his reaction was … angry, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps, although he didn’t say as much.”

  Sir Clement sighed and pushed himself up from his chair. He took a long swig of ale from his cup before placing it on the table. “Tomorrow I shall wish to speak with the bailiff’s family members — I believe you told me he has two daughters in addition to his sister living in Glynval — to ask some questions. And the servant girl, Annabel.”

  Ranulf’s heart skipped a few beats. “Certainly, Sir Clement.”

  Chapter

  13

  Ranulf lay motionless as a woman leaned over him. Her face swam in and out of view, her features watery, as though he were looking at her through a fog. She drew nearer and her face gradually came i
nto focus.

  “Guinevere.”

  She smiled her languid smile. As she reached out to touch his chest, her diaphanous sleeve fell away to reveal her bare arm.

  “I thought you were —”

  “Hush, now.” Her smile grew wider as she touched his face, and then she laughed, her head falling back. When she straightened again her smile had turned sinister. She clenched her teeth and her face began to turn ashen. With a cackle she lifted something in her hand. A knife. Raising it above her shoulder, she laughed louder.

  Ranulf tried to raise his arm to block her blow, but his limbs seemed made of iron. He could barely lift them off the bed.

  She brought the knife down, toward his chest, toward his heart, still cackling. She was killing him.

  Ranulf woke with a gasp then sat up and looked around. He gulped air as though he’d been running, unable to take in a full breath. The only light came from the barely flickering fire in the fireplace.

  It was only another dream, another nightmare. She’d been gone these three years now. Dead.

  Her face had been so real, so clear and plain. The memory of her treachery was fresh again, piercing.

  Nay, not so piercing as it had once been, when her betrayal had been new, or even a few weeks ago. Certainly not so piercing as when he watched them lower her lifeless body into the ground. Though even then he’d felt a peace, almost a sense of relief that he no longer had to face her disgust. He finally took a deep breath and sighed.

  Yes, she was gone, truly gone. Except in his dreams.

  He swung his legs off the side of the bed, his feet touching the cool stone. He let his head rest in his hands. True, his wife had hurt him as deeply as if she had driven a knife into his heart. But he no longer felt the pain as keenly. In fact, at this moment, he felt it not at all. When had such a transformation taken place? The memory of her had tormented him, had led him to break down in anguish in the woods only two or three weeks earlier. So why did he feel such peace now, even immediately after dreaming of her?

  His mind conjured up a new face. Annabel Chapman. So kind and gentle, with so much warmth and goodness in her mind and soul. A new pain had taken the place of the old one — and like the old, this new feeling was one he did not wish to linger over. Annabel had helped him see the injustice of his own bitterness toward women, but he had failed her — because of him the coroner would ask her question after question, the very thing she had been terrified would happen.

  A log crumbled softly in the fireplace, sending up sparks. Another sound caught his attention, coming from the opposite direction. He lifted his head. He could hear Mistress Eustacia snoring softly on the other side of the room, but this brief sound, a scuffling as of bare feet on the stone floor, was much nearer.

  A bed had been added to the upper hall for Sir Clement so he didn’t have to sleep with the workers. Perhaps Sir Clement was awake.

  He called softly, “Who’s there? Sir Clement?”

  “It is only I.” The voice was barely audible. He didn’t recognize it.

  “Who?”

  “Maud atte Water, my lord,” she whispered back.

  “What are you doing here?” The bailiff’s daughter. What could she need at this hour?

  “I … I couldn’t sleep, and it seems neither can you. We could comfort each other.” Her voice broke at the last word, as if she was holding back tears.

  Ranulf swallowed past the lump in his throat. If she knew how unwelcome this offer was, she’d certainly never have made it. He tried to wrestle his tone into something akin to compassion, remembering that she was mourning her father.

  “I’m sorry, but that would not be my wish. You must go before someone discovers you here.”

  “Must I?” She sniffed dramatically. “But I could —”

  “You must go.” He made his words loud and firm, well aware that he was helpless to prevent the girl from putting him in an embarrassing situation.

  He had no choice but to awaken Mistress Eustacia. He grabbed his chausses and jerked them on as he came out from behind the screen. The servant girl stood two feet away, hugging herself, her head bent. At least she had on clothing, though it looked like only a thin nightdress.

  “Mistress Eustacia will take you down to the undercroft.” He stepped toward Eustacia’s sleeping area, but the girl caught his arm.

  “Nay,” she whispered. “Don’t wake the mistress.” She grabbed his other arm and pulled toward his bed.

  Ranulf twisted out of her grasp, clenching his fists. “Mistress Eustacia!” Must he, in his own home, be forced to put up with this nonsense, this disobedience, this impropriety?

  A shadowy form rose from Sir Clement’s bed against the wall.

  “Lord Ranulf?” Eustacia’s sleepy voice croaked. Her bed rustled as she moved to sit up.

  “I need your help.” Help me, woman, and hurry.

  Eustacia came shuffling over. “Who is it? I can’t see a thing in this dim light. Lord Ranulf, is everything well?”

  “Please walk Maud back down to the undercroft.”

  Maud began to cry short, shuddering sobs, with her hands over her face.

  “Maud?” Eustacia’s voice sounded confused, though less groggy. “Whatever is the matter?”

  Maud ripped her hands from her face. “Him.” She pointed a finger at Ranulf. “He was trying to take advantage of me, just as he did before my father’s attack. Now he wants no part of me.”

  Heat rushed into Ranulf’s face as he understood her meaning. “That is a lie. How dare you tell such a thing to Mistress Eustacia.” And to Sir Clement. Ranulf watched the man scratch his head.

  “I shall tell it everywhere, to everyone. You will be sorry for not — “ She stopped herself. “You will be sorry.”

  “For not accepting your offer, you mean. What you are claiming is a complete falsehood. Sir Clement, you are also a witness.”

  “So I am.” Sir Clement stepped forward into the faint light.

  Eustacia hurried to light a candle and carried it back to the small group of people, moving close to Maud, studying her face.

  All eyes on her, Maud glared at each person then settled on Sir Clement. “You must force him to marry me. He has ruined me.”

  “Sir Clement, I’ve never touched this girl.”

  “What proof do you have of this claim?” Sir Clement asked Maud.

  “My word. Isn’t that proof enough?”

  “I’m afraid it isn’t. What happened tonight carries weight as well.”

  “Have you no interest in justice? Why are you here, then?”

  “I am here to find out what happened to your father.”

  “You should ask our lord, for he is the one who found the body, isn’t he? Should he not be under suspicion?”

  “Everyone in Glynval is under suspicion, I assure you. Now I suggest you obey your lord and leave this room at once.”

  Eustacia placed her hand on Maud’s arm, but Maud snatched it away.

  “I won’t be so easily silenced,” Maud hissed. Pure hatred shone on her face. She spun around and stomped to the door, slamming it behind her.

  What to do now? If he passionately protested his innocence to Sir Clement, he’d only seem guilty.

  “Sir, if you will allow me to speak.” Eustacia placed her hand on her chest, staring in Sir Clement’s direction.

  “You may.” It was fine for Sir Clement to sound so calm. He wasn’t being accused of bedding a servant he’d never thought of touching.

  “The girl’s overwrought from her father’s injuries. The thing is impossible — I’m here with Lord Ranulf every night. If our lord had crept out to take advantage of her, don’t you think I would have known it? My word must surely convince you of Lord Ranulf’s innocence.”

  “Indeed, madam, it does not convince me.”

  Her eyes flew wide as alarm registered on her face. Ranulf hoped she wouldn’t start to cry.

  Patting his jaw with a finger, Sir Clement shook his head. “No, you ar
e a hard sleeper, Mistress Eustacia. You did not hear when your lord moaned in his sleep, apparently from a bad dream. And when Maud boldly opened the door and came into the room, you slept on. But no one blames you for any this.” He murmured the last statement as he waved his hand.

  “I am innocent of these claims, Sir Clement.” Ranulf forced himself to breathe evenly.

  Sir Clement looked him full in the face, though it was hard to discern the coroner’s expression in the dim light. “Yes, I know.”

  Ranulf waited for him to explain.

  “There are several aspects that appear to prove the girl false. For one, why would she come here to accuse you of immorality half dressed and in her nightshirt? And she accused you of trying to take advantage of her tonight. Obviously a falsehood, since I myself heard you refuse to allow her in your bed. But I have another reason that is yet more compelling, which I will keep to myself, for now.” He looked at Ranulf with a slight smile. “I again bid you a good night.” With that, he returned to his bed and climbed under the bedclothes.

  Eustacia stared with her mouth open. And Ranulf decided not to ponder Sir Clement’s last reason.

  Ranulf watched as Annabel strode into the upper hall, her back rigid. Her eyes moved, flitting like frightened birds. Father God, steady her. Give her peace and wisdom.

  At least Sir Clement was allowing him to sit in on the interrogations. Ranulf only wished Annabel wasn’t the first person on the coroner’s list.

  Sir Clement motioned her to a chair in front of one of the long windows — the morning light streaming in made her appear almost unearthly, with her golden hair and wide, innocent eyes.

  She clenched her hands together in her lap and stared up at Sir Clement, who fixed her with his own probing stare.

  Sir Clement finally broke the silence. “What is your name?”

  “Annabel Chapman, sir.” Her voice was soft but steely.

  “How long have you been in Lord le Wyse’s service here at the manor house?” Sir Clement examined his fingernails, as though the conversation bored him.