by Meg Cabot
Looking down at Finnula, the sheriff smiled. “Now, Finnula, why don’t you tell us what happened. Did this man rape you, dear?”
Finnula shook her head. “No, but—”
“Did he harm you in any way?”
“No, but I—”
“Well, then.” Sheriff de Brissac released the miller’s shoulder, but retained his grip on Hugo’s. Hugo didn’t mind, because he was beginning to like the corpulent lawman, who wouldn’t allow Finnula to let loose the outburst that Hugo could readily see was brewing. He thought he could see why it was that, though the sheriff seemed perfectly aware who was doing all the poaching in His Lordship’s wood, he had never arrested the offender. “I believe that the only question remaining is who, sir, are you?”
Hugo stared steadily at Finnula as he said, with quiet dignity, “I am Hugo Geoffrey Fitzstephen, seventh Earl of Stephensgate, recently returned from imprisonment in Acre to lord over my late father’s demesnes.”
The silence that this announcement engendered was broken only by a cry of outrage, which, Hugo realized with a start, came from Finnula.
When he turned to look over at her, the last thing he expected to see was that she’d burst into angry tears. But that’s precisely what had happened. The Fair Finn, frightened of no man or beast, was sobbing furiously, and when Hugo said her name and started toward her, she turned and ran, fleetly as a doe, toward her sisters.
Those auburn-haired matrons enveloped her in their arms and, giving him a communal look of pure, unadulterated hatred, slammed the millhouse door in his face.
Sheriff de Brissac was the first to throw back his head and laugh. He was joined a moment later by Finnula’s brothers-in-law, then by Matthew Fairchild, and finally, most heartily of all, by Robert Crais. Hugo stood in the center of the yard, staring at the firmly closed door, and wondered how in the hell he’d ended up the lord of a village of lunatics.
“Ah,” Sheriff de Brissac cried, the first to recover from being doubled over with derisive laughter. “Ah, but that felt good.”
Hugo glared at the older man. “Doesn’t anyone believe me?”
“Oh, aye, m’lord, aye. We all believe you. Who else could you be? That’s not what we all find so amusing.”
Hugo had placed his fists on his hips and regarded the guffawing men impassively. “Well, perhaps you’d care to enlighten me, then, as to what, precisely, does so amuse you.”
“Well, ’tis the fact that you think you’re marryin’ Finnula, if you must know.” The very idea seemed nearly to send Sheriff de Brissac over the edge again, but he must have noticed Hugo’s frown, since he controlled himself. “Beggin’ your pardon, m’lord. Can you honestly not know?”
Hugo could never remember feeling such rage in his life. It took an almost superhuman effort to control his desire to tear across that yard, kick down a door, and drag out his weeping bride-to-be.
“I honestly don’t know,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Well, perhaps you ken that Finnula was married before?”
“Yes,” Hugo said, shrugging. “What of it?”
“And she didn’t tell you to whom it was she was wed?”
“She didn’t say.”
“She wouldn’t. Worst day of her life, I believe.” By now, all the men had ceased laughing, and were staring at Hugo with a wide variety of expressions, from Robert Crais’s self-satisfied smirk to Farmer Fairchild’s anxious pity. Pity? Hugo wanted to put his fist through something.
“Well?” Hugo demanded. “Aren’t you going to tell me who the bloody hell it was she was married to?”
Sheriff de Brissac looked almost sorry he had to be the one to break the news.
“Your father, my lord.”
Chapter Ten
Finnula lay on the bed she and Mellana had shared for nearly all their lives and scowled. She had cried for nearly a quarter of an hour, her sisters clucking around her like hens, but Finnula had never been a weeper, and couldn’t keep up a steady stream of tears for long.
So after having endured Brynn’s coddling and fended off Patricia’s scolding, having allowed herself to be disrobed by Camilla—“These leather braies are a disgrace!”—and dressed again by Christina—“You have such lovely bliauts, why do you not wear them?”—she lifted her head from a damp pillow and abruptly stopped weeping. Rolling onto her stomach, oblivious to the wrinkles she was making in her dark green bliaut, Finnula scowled at the headboard while her sisters chattered around her.
“’Twas a nasty trick he played on you, Finn,” Christina was saying, running a brush through her little sister’s thick hair as she sat beside her on the wooden-framed bed. “But you can’t blame him—”
“Aye, how was he to know about you and Lord Geoffrey?” Brynn sighed. “The poor man—”
“Poor nothing.” Patricia, who was the family scold, was happy with neither Finnula nor the earl. “He would have told her, if he hadn’t been so enchanted with the idea of being held for ransom by a winsome redhead—”
“Patricia!” The ever-gentle Brynn was shocked. “How can you say such a thing?”
“How can I? Because it’s the truth, you goose.”
“But he’s an earl!”
“Oh, and earls aren’t men? I believe we know only too well, from Finnula’s experience with the late Lord Geoffrey, that earls are men first, lords second—”
“’Tis ridiculous to suggest he didn’t tell her because he liked being held hostage by her,” Christina said, giving a tangle in Finnula’s hair a playful tug. “Perfectly ridiculous.”
Patricia had folded her arms across her chest. “Obviously he liked it, or he would have escaped.”
“He couldn’t escape,” Brynn said. “It was Finn who had him, remember. Finn would never allow a hostage to escape. That’s why Mellana asked her in the first place—”
“Oh,” wailed Mellana, from the far corner of the room to which she’d been banished by her older sisters. “’Tis all my fault!”
“’Tis true,” Patricia snapped, completely without compassion for her second youngest sibling. “’Tis your fault entirely, Mel. No one’s denying that. Imagine, spending your entire dowry on trinkets. Whoever heard of such a thing? I’m ashamed to admit I’m related to you. You just sit in that corner until we’ve figured out what we’re to do with you.”
Mellana wailed some more, and Finnula glared at her. She hadn’t yet let slip the reason behind the urgent need to replenish Mellana’s dowry, but she had already resolved that if worse came to worst, she would.
“Oh, Finnula.” Brynn was biting her lower lip worriedly. “I don’t know how to put this, but, Finnula, you and the earl didn’t…I mean, nothing…improper…occurred whilst you were traveling with him, did it?”
Finnula only scowled more deeply.
“Don’t be a goose, Brynn,” Christina advised. “The earl would never have made improper advances toward one of his own vassals.”
“He would if he intended to marry her, as he announced below,” Patricia said dryly.
“Did he, Finn?”
“Yes, Finn. Did he?”
“You can tell us, Finn. We won’t tell Robert. Did he, dear?”
Fortunately, Finnula was spared from having to make a reply by footsteps on the stairs just outside their door. Camilla burst into the room, her pretty eyes glowing. The gossip of the group, Camilla had been sent downstairs to spy upon the men, and from the look on her face, she’d heard plenty.
“Oh, Finn,” she cried, running to the bed and leaping upon it like an exuberant child, oblivious to Finnula’s prone body and her own fine silk bliaut and carefully coifed hair. “You’ll not believe what a ruckus your Lord Hugo’s making! He’s demanding that you be brought below immediately, and threatening Robert with the stockade! It’s simply too delicious!”
Finnula’s other sisters crowded round the bed.
“What did he say?”
“Does he still want to wed her?”
“Robert c
an’t deny him—”
“How could he wed his own father’s widow?”
“Tell us what you heard, Camilla!”
“Yes, tell us!”
Camilla held up two hands, commanding silence. A born thespian, she lowered her voice dramatically and whispered, “Well, when I got to the doorway of the gathering room, Bruce was standing there, guarding it, and he had the nerve to say, ‘Get upstairs with your sisters, woman. Your prating prate isn’t needed here,’ to which I replied—”
“No one cares what Bruce has to say,” Patricia scoffed, and then added, with a slightly apologetic smile, “Begging your pardon, Christina—”
Christina waved a dismissive hand, and Camilla continued.
“Well, Sheriff de Brissac was telling Lord Hugo about how Finnula and his father met—”
Finnula groaned and, lifting the pillow, crammed it over her head.
“Sheriff de Brissac was telling him?” Brynn was confused. “Why wasn’t Robert telling him?”
“Robert won’t speak to him. Just glowers at him over his tankard—”
“Tankard?” Brynn was shocked. “They’re drinking, at a time like this?”
“Lord Hugo himself demanded a barrel of Mel’s Brew be opened. Will you please let me finish?” Camilla was impatient to get on with her performance. “So as Sheriff de Brissac described how Lord Geoffrey came upon Finn swimming that day at the Spring of St. Elias, and how he spied upon her and became besotted with her and followed her all the way back to Stephensgate”—Finnula groaned again from beneath the pillow—“Lord Hugo grew quite red in the face, and then he said, ‘That old devil,’ about his own father, mind. Then Sheriff de Brissac told him how Robert did everything he could think of to keep Finnula from having to marry the old goat—his words, not mine—because she did nothing but weep at the prospect of such a marriage, but how nothing would dissuade the old man and how finally, Lord Geoffrey issued a feudal command, on sheepskin, no less, informing Robert that if he didn’t deliver up Finn the mill would be taken away—”
Beneath the pillow, Finnula let out a muffled groan, then kicked her bare feet against the bed until Patricia reached down impatiently and seized both her ankles.
“Keep still, you impertinent cuss. We’re listening.”
Finnula said, her words barely intelligible, since she was speaking into the feather tick, “Can’t you all go away and leave me alone?”
“No,” Patricia snapped. “Go on, Camilla.”
“Well, you could tell Lord Hugo was right shocked to hear that his father had intended to exercise his feudal rights in that respect, since he spat out all his ale, nearly hitting Matthew Fairchild in the face—”
“He didn’t!” Patricia was shocked by this unlordly behavior.
“He did. But when he recovered himself, Sheriff de Brissac assured him it was true, and that Finnula prepared for her wedding day as if it was her funeral—”
Finnula kicked her feet some more, and Camilla said, “Oh, I am sorry, Finn, I’d forgotten how much you hate to hear about that day. But the telling’s necessary this time, don’t you know. In any case, Sheriff de Brissac told how Finn and Lord Geoffrey were wed, with the whole village in attendance, and how afterward there was that feast in the manor’s great hall, and then Finnula and Lord Geoffrey went up to bed, and then—”
Finnula whipped the pillow off her head and sat up, her bliaut twisted so that much more of her chest was exposed by the low neckline of her tight bodice than was proper.
“What did Lord Hugo say then, Camilla?” Finnula demanded, seizing her sister’s slim wrist. “When the sheriff told him?”
Camilla, pleased her narration was being appreciated by at least one enraptured audience member, preened a little, smoothing her auburn curls and examining a fat diamond ring with which her winemaker husband had gifted her last week. Then, seeing that all four of her other sisters were also watching with bated breath, she clapped her hands together.
“Well! Sheriff de Brissac told how Finnula came screaming from the bedchamber, all her hair streaming down her back and looking like it was on fire—I liked that bit, about how her hair looked like fire—crying that Lord Geoffrey was dead. You should have seen Lord Hugo’s face then. White as snow, it was, and his mouth hanging open. ‘Dead?’ he repeated, and Sheriff de Brissac nodded. ‘Aye. Dead.’ And then the sheriff went on to describe how everyone ran upstairs and there was the earl stretched out on the floor, dead as a donkey, and Finnula in hysterics swearing she hadn’t laid a hand on him, and how Reginald Laroche straight off accused her of poisoning the old man, and—”
“But what did he say?” Finnula took hold of Camilla’s wrist again. “What did Lord Hugo say to that?”
“He looked the sheriff in the eye and said, in that deep voice of his—Oh, Finnula, he really is quite handsome, your Lord Hugo. And his voice is so rich and low, like thunder it sounds. It sends chills up the back of my neck—”
“Never mind that now. What did Lord Hugo say?”
“He said, ‘No one could honestly believe Finnula Crais capable of poisoning anyone, even someone as odious as my father,’ and Sheriff de Brissac said that he had always believed in your innocence, and that it was a bad thing, a very bad thing that had happened—”
“What did he mean by that?” Finnula wondered.
“La, I don’t know. But the sheriff told him that no poison was ever found and that no one else died that night, and we’d all eaten the same food, so he ruled Lord Geoffrey’s death a natural one—after all, the man was nearly sixty—”
“And your husband’s how old, Camilla?” inquired Patricia, wickedly.
Camilla glared at her. “Fie on you, Trish. Gregory’s only two score and ten—”
“What did Lord Hugo say?” Finnula hissed, through gritted teeth.
“Oh, well, he said, ‘Of course no one honestly believed Finnula would have done something like that,’ and the sheriff said that only the Laroches believed it…You remember how that bitch Isabella was going about, calling us sisters of a murdering whore and all of that?”
In the corner, Mellana made a sound, and Camilla threw her a disparaging glance.
“Oh, Mel, I don’t care if Isabella is your friend. A crueler slut never walked the earth. Remember how her father went into that rage when the sheriff wouldn’t arrest Finnula for murder? But then when Father Edward ruled that the marriage was void, on account of it never having been consummated, Laroche quit complaining, and that was the end of it. That was when Lord Hugo said a curious thing.”
“What?” Finnula’s face had gone white as the sheets beneath her. “What did he say?”
“He said, ‘You mean Finnula didn’t get her third?’ and the sheriff said, ‘The marriage was never legal,’ and Lord Hugo said, ‘Meaning that the entire estate fell to Laroche,’ and the sheriff agreed, saying, ‘You were being held in Acre, my lord, and the common belief at the time was that you were going to die there.’”
Patricia elbowed Finnula, hard. “Your Lord Hugo thinks Reginald Laroche murdered his father and tried to make it look as if you did it, so you’d go to the gibbet and he’d get the estate. Mark my words, there’ll be blood spent over this.”
Finnula glared up at her sister, rubbing the tender spot on her rib where she’d prodded her. “Ow.”
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard you. Don’t poke me there, I’ve got a bruise.”
“Lord Hugo won’t be able to prove Reginald Laroche had anything to do with Lord Geoffrey’s death, Patricia, any more than Sheriff de Brissac was ever able to,” Christina said, shaking her head. “Oh, Finn, this is nasty business—”
“What happened then?” Finnula asked Camilla, trying to keep her eagerness from showing.
“Well, then Lord Hugo said something else I didn’t understand. ‘So that’s why they m’lady her,’ and the sheriff laughed and said how Finnula took her oath to protect Lord Geoffrey’s vassals very seriously, and Lord Hugo said th
at it looked as if Finnula’d never stopped carrying out her duties as chatelaine to Stephensgate Manor and that it was a good thing, too, because when he married her it wouldn’t be such a dreadful change for her—”
“What?” cried Finnula.
“Which is exactly what Robert said. ‘What?’ And he came rising up out of his chair, screaming, ‘You can’t still mean to marry her!’ to which Lord Hugo replied, ‘If she’ll have me,’ and then the sheriff started to laugh again and Robert lunged across the table, like to kill His Lordship, only Bruce stopped him, and reminded him it was the earl he was speaking to, not some wandering minstrel who’d asked for his sister’s hand—”
In the corner, Mellana let out a whimper.
“And Robert said that he didn’t care, he’d see Finnula dead before he’d let her wed another Fitzstephen, since she did naught but weep for days at the prospect of marrying the first one, and that she was already upstairs weeping at the idea of marrying his son. And then, you wouldn’t have believed it, Lord Hugo threatened to have Robert thrown in the stockade for his impudence! He even called our brother an interfering pup, and then started chastising him for letting Finnula wander the countryside in braies, to which Robert replied, ‘If you think you can manage her better, my lord, you’re welcome to her!’ And Lord Hugo said, ‘Thank you very much,’ and Sheriff de Brissac straight off proposed a toast to the happy couple!”
Christina shook Finnula excitedly. “Did you hear that, Finn? Did you hear?”
Finnula nodded dazedly, then sat back, feeling limp. Well, of course he had to say he wanted to marry her, after all that! But he couldn’t possibly mean it. He was only doing it out of honor. And Finnula wouldn’t marry a man simply to assuage his sense of honor. She was going to do the right thing, and tell him it wasn’t necessary. If she was with child, she’d simply go somewhere—to a convent, she supposed. She could tell everyone she’d gone on a pilgrimage to purify her soul. Though she rather doubted anyone would believe it. And she’d have the baby, and see that it was given to some childless couple, then come straight back home.
