Without warning, a laugh broke from Geoff. The sound brought with it a wondrous reminder of earlier times when a smile and a jest had come as naturally to him as breathing. "I fear these next months will find me relying heavily on your holiness."
Osbert's expression thawed until the man grinned. In the six months Geoffrey had been sheriff he’d not once seen this knight display his teeth; it seemed that despite his middling years Osbert yet held tight to every one of them. As the coldness departed the man's face, it left behind only the general sort of blandness adopted by a hireling when dealing with their employer. "So, what shall I tell the lady?"
Geoff shook his head. "Naught. I'll not ask you to do what should be mine, and it’s mine to tell the widow what I expect from her. I think me I must discover for myself how fragile she truly is."
He raised a hand to signal the troop to halt. As men called his command back along the line, protesting leather sighed into quiet, followed by the stamp and blow of resting horses. Geoffrey turned Passavant and started down the roadbed toward the end of the line.
Those who made up Crosswell's present contingent barely glanced at him as he rode past. If only four of them openly blessed themselves, most of the others gazed skyward or at the road's rocky surface. The pleasure he'd felt at Osbert's sudden friendliness was lost against their reaction. Bearing the fear and hatred of others was not a task for the faint of heart. Having lived the majority of his life content with only himself for company, Geoff hadn't expected this shunning to so affect him.
When he reached the center of the line, he drew his mount to a halt and frowned. This was where he'd commanded the women to stay, surrounded by Crosswell's men for their own protection. There was no sign of them.
"Where are the noblewomen?" he asked one of the braver souls who dared to meet his gaze.
"At your call to stop the two of them took for yon hillock," the commoner replied in heavily accented French.
Geoffrey glanced over his shoulder. A small mound, half-hidden by barren trees, stood not ten yards from the roadbed. The two weak-livered palfreys the women rode stood at its edge, heads down, manes and tails streaming in the wind. He turned his attention back onto the soldier.
"You let them go without an escort?" This was more snarl than question.
There was a brief instant of startled silence within the commoners' ranks at his unexpected vehemence, then saddles groaned as men shifted, craning their necks to watch what went forward from over their comrades' shoulders.
The recipient of the rebuke tried to shrug. "Nay, my lord. We tried to follow, but they warned us away, saying they needed a moment's privacy. They are noblewomen, my lord. What could we do?" The man's voice took on an aggrieved tone as a hedge against blame.
Geoffrey's spine straightened at the meaning behind the commoner's words. The widow openly flaunted his command, putting herself in danger. May God damn that fool of a woman a thousand times over! Then he caught a sharp breath. Fool or sly vixen? Were he to allow her disobedience to stand unchallenged, it might swiftly erode his control over Crosswell and its troops. Her husband had been Baldwin's friend. Could it be a coincidence that in less than a full day as his ward Lady Freyne sought to make him appear incompetent? No matter the reason, he’d not tolerate such behavior in his own keep, nor would he now. Lady Freyne's defiance would end right this moment.
"Dismount you and hold this beast of mine to keep him calm. I've got me a widow to fry." The vicious tone of his voice set nervous laughter rippling among those within hearing distance. Geoffrey threw himself from Passavant's saddle and stalked toward the mound. His mail jangled with each step, harsh music to feed his irritation.
From the hillock's opposite side, Lady Clare leapt up and whirled to face him, her cloak spread wide to shield her cousin from the intruder's view. She gasped when she saw him, no doubt expecting Osbert or one of the common soldiers.
Geoffrey stopped within arm's reach of her. "Tell your lady cousin that I will not tolerate her disregard of my commands. When I say she is to remain with my men, then remain she must. Disobey me again, and you'll both taste the same lash that chastises anyone within my vale fool enough to defy me."
"You wouldn't dare," the lady in question retorted, yet hidden behind her relative's woolen shield.
"Wouldn't I?" he retorted, fixing his glare on the female he could see.
Lady Clare squeaked, then shot a frantic look over her shoulder at the woman behind her. "Lyssa, enough," she hissed. "I pray you, say no more."
"His is an empty threat," Lady Freyne replied, less force in her voice this time. "The court does not allow those under its protection to be abused."
"My lady, you mistake discipline for abuse." Geoffrey raised his voice to be certain the widow heard every word. "As for the court's control of you, until that babe is come you belong to me as if you were my own family. Thus are you subject to the same rules that I apply to those directly connected to me. And no one, not even you, challenges my rightful discipline."
"My lord, we meant no harm and will be more cautious in the future," Lady Clare said, her voice trembling as she attempted to soothe him. It might have been more effective had her gaze not been fixed at some spot in the distance “It’s just that Lady Freyne grew very ill and wished to relieve herself in private."
"Aye, and here is another issue we must address," he said. "I can no longer tolerate the delays Lady Freyne costs me. If she is ill, let her return to the manor house where we spent last even. I'll send a cart for her once I've reached Crosswell, allowing her to travel at her leisure."
"It’s a kind offer, my lord—" Lady Clare started.
"Nay! You cannot leave me behind. We do not accept," Lady Freyne cried out, her voice choked and hoarse. Then she gagged.
Her cousin turned to crouch beside the widow, glancing once over her shoulder to make certain her charge was yet shielded from his view. "How can you empty your stomach when you put nothing in it since midday yesterday?" she asked in gentle commiseration.
"I am not emptying it, I'm only thinking about it," Lady Freyne managed, her voice thready. There was a moment's quiet, then the widow sighed. "Ah, it eases. Clare, I think me it’s that potion of yours. The babe dislikes it as much as I do. God be praised, at least he doesn't demand I expel the latest dose."
"It cannot be the tonic. It’s meant to strengthen you,"Clare soothed. The loose surface of the hill shifted beneath her feet, and she slipped backward to sit on the gently sloping ground. Her movement exposed Lady Freyne to Geoffrey's view, and he caught his breath in surprise.
His ward had not only thrown back her cloak hood in preparation for her sickness, but removed her wimple as well. Thick russet hair tumbled out of what had once been a tight roll, spilling softly over the slender line of her shoulders. The wind toyed with the pretty stuff, making it dance around her. Her head lay on her cousin's shoulder, exposing her profile to him. Aye, and all of her throat's slender line along with it.
"I care not what its purpose is," Lady Freyne sighed. Her eyes closed. "Neither of us can tolerate another drop of that foul brew. Pour it out for the moles to drink."
Her head shifted on her cousin's shoulder until she faced Geoffrey, her eyes still closed. Although propriety demanded Geoffrey turn his back, he stood rooted to this spot, his gaze refusing to shift from her visage.
Shadows clung to the hollows beneath her eyes and cheeks, proving that the child within her rode her hard, indeed. So, if she was truly sick, why did she insist on traveling with him? His brow smoothed in understanding. It wasn’t Baldwin who made her his puppet, but that boy of hers at the other end of this journey. If her unborn babe begged her to go slower, her worry over her elder child goaded her on to a reckless pace.
The shifting air sent soft tendrils of hair across her fine, wide cheekbones. He watched as a single strand caught on the fullness of her upper lip. Dear God, but she was lovely. Desire woke in him, sharp and strong, and touching her mouth with his suddenly bec
ame the item of greatest importance in his life.
She sighed once more and opened her eyes. Her gaze caught on his face, once again without flinching away from his scars as other women's did. This only fed his need. He'd run his fingers down the soft curve of her cheek just to see if she reacted when he touched her nape. He watched her hand rise to brush away the hair clinging to her face, vowing his fingers could feel the softness of her skin.
With a sharp cry, her eyes widened, and she struggled free of her cousin's embrace to sit upright. Instantly, she jerked her cloak hood up over her head, concealing her face in modest shadow. It was with great reluctance that Geoffrey gave up his desire.
"For shame, my lord sheriff." Her chide started as a throaty breath, but grew in steel and strength as bright color flared in her cheeks, a testimony to the depth of her embarrassment. "Why did you not turn away as you should have?"
Within him rose a sudden urge to smile at her distress over such an innocent moment. "Your state of dress was unexpected. Given the circumstances, I can hardly complain that you behaved lewdly. I vow I will say nothing of what happened," he offered in reassurance.
Her eyes widened, and she freed an angry gasp. "You will say nothing of my behavior? It’s not me who who did wrong here, but you who violated my privacy. Fie on you."
A swift, harsh breath escaped him. There was not an iota of fear of him residing in her. Christus, why was the only woman who paid no heed to Sibyl's tales also the only woman placed in a position to do the most harm to him and his?
She wasn't finished. "Aye, then you continue to wrong me again when you threaten to abandon me at some nameless place along the road. It’s your duty to escort me the full distance to Crosswell. Shirk it and I shall complain to the court."
Her last words set fire to his anger, and it exploded in him with a single, brilliant flash, shattering his emptiness. In the fiery rebirth of his inner emotions, he could see every miserable day of the next months stretching ahead of him with aching clarity. Unless he could stop her, she would ever be at his heels, nagging and harassing over each slight she imagined he did her. Of all the threats facing him just now, this was the most horrible, worse even than the possibility that she sought to ruin him at Baldwin's behest.
"Do you wish to ride with me, my lady?” It was not a polite question. "You are welcome only so long as you understand that from this instant onward, I will pause only to rest and feed the horses. If you cannot keep pace, you will be left behind."
She scrambled to her feet, leaving her cousin to sit meekly beside her, head bowed. Lady Freyne set her hands on her hips, while her eyes narrowed in anger and defiance. "Nay that I will not allow."
"You will not allow?" he shouted, his fists closing. "Do you think me a servant to be told to go faster or slower at your will? Since you are so powerful, tell me how is it you intend to stop me from riding on while you dawdle?"
The widow drew a furious breath, but could only glare at him in silence. After a moment, she crossed her arms before her and lifted her chin. Even though she had no answer for him, she would admit neither defeat nor his right to command her as he saw fit.
Geoffrey's teeth clenched so tightly they hurt. No wonder Gradinton had been ready to beat her. She persisted where even a man would have bowed and acknowledged another's greater power. Such was the natural order of things. How could she think to defy nature? Damn her, but she could not. She must submit. Did she not realize that her defiance left him to choose between beating her into submission or appearing as her fool? The very thought of what needed doing made his stomach turn; there had to be some other way to bring her to her knees before him.
As Geoffrey recognized what it was, his hands opened and his shoulders relaxed. "I suggest you have done with these useless commands and threats of yours. They neither become you, nor do they serve your son. You can hardly expect me to think fondly on him when his dam seeks to abuse me in this way. Or, have you forgotten which one of us now controls him?" He raised a scornful brow.
"Mon Dieu, what have I done?" she gasped, her hands coming to catch at her throat. Pain twisted her mouth, and sudden tears glistened in her eyes. Her knees more buckled than bent as she knelt, head bowed. "Nay, my lord sheriff, do not hurt him. I will take your beating for having wronged you with my rudeness. Do not hurt him, I pray you.” A quiet sob followed her last word.
Geoffrey groaned within himself. Her care for her son was no more than an echo of what he felt for Cecilia. Where he had the wealth and connections to protect his daughter from Baldwin's rightful control, the widow had naught but herself to set between him and her son. The sudden sense of connection between them brought with it the urge to touch her and ease the hurt he’d just done her.
"Jesu Christus," he breathed in shock and dismay at himself. "Enough, my lady. Either mount in the next moment or stay behind."
Geoffrey whirled on his heel and started around the hillock, striding as swiftly as he could back to the waiting soldiers. Osbert now held Passavant. The knight watched him, his face scrupulously blank. Geoffrey grabbed his reins and swung himself back into the big gray's saddle.
"What is your command, my lord?" There was an odd tone to Osbert's voice, as if he laughed deep within himself.
Geoffrey stared at him, but there was no sign of amusement in the man's pale eyes. "If the women have not remounted in the next few moments, you'll stay with twenty men to escort them back to the manor we left this morn. If they decide to ride with us, there will be no more delays. But whatever else, keep them as far from me as you can." He urged Passavant into a trot.
"Our Father," Osbert intoned, just loudly enough to be heard. There was a sudden clearing of throats among the ranks.
Geoffrey ignored him. Every bit of his energy was focused on destroying the terrible softness the widow woke in him. He concentrated on her strident, commanding manner until anger's fire blazed through him once more. Although trading emptiness for rage might not be a positive change, it was far better than vulnerability.
"Surly bitch," he muttered to himself; the fire grew, eating his heart as it went.
"Cruel and unfeeling bastard," Elyssa muttered, her throat ragged, burned raw by unshead tears. "Cold hearted son of a sow. I vow, he'll pay for his threat against my son."
These words were the only barrier standing between her and hysteria. Promises of vengeance had become like the prayers she intoned while slipping her beads through her fingers. It was also the only thing keeping her upright in her saddle. Just now, she’d have been happy to drop to the ground and move never more. Having never been a great rider, Elyssa had completely foregone travel by horseback after a fall early in her first marriage. Now her legs and back ached beyond enduring. Even at a walk, the motion of this horrible beast kept her stomach aggravated.
She glanced ahead of her. The road crested over yet another hill, while behind her the descending sun shot knife-edged rays of light through a thick sea of clouds. Orange and red, the sun's lifeblood poured through these rents to stain an already dead and barren earth. Metal gleamed dully at the forefront of the long line of men. That would be the sheriff, his big steed lifting willing hooves to trot up the final distance to the hilltop.
Elyssa's eyes narrowed. "And if you dare to hurt Jocelyn—" Then what?
Helplessness deflated her. The sheriff cared nothing for what she felt nor would her emotions stay his hand if he wished to abuse Jocelyn. Her head drooped, bowing now when her neck had refused to bend this morn.
"Fool, fool, fool," she wept softly to herself in guilt. "All he asked was that you acknowledge his right to command you to his will as is his right. Why couldn’t you give him that much? Look how your pride has put your child in harm's way. What sort of mother are you?"
This was all Freyne's fault. Ramshaw had been willing to beat her into submission, but their marriage had lasted a bare two years. Aymer had stayed his hand, even letting her leave him to pursue her own life. Had he not done so she might have learned, as
other women did, to hide her disrespect and defiance behind submissive female behavior.
Her palfrey started up the steepest bit of the road, its muscles straining beneath her. Her fear of falling made Elyssa grab for the saddle's edge as her body slid; the reins dangled uselessly between her fingers. Given this sudden freedom, the horrid creature erupted into a swift trot up the remainder of the incline. The change in gait nearly jostled her from the saddle.
"My lady, slow your mount," one of the men riding alongside warned, spurring his own horse to stay abreast of her.
Elyssa gasped against her fear, but managed to release her hold on the saddle and yank on the reins. Why did they worry so over how fast she went? Even if the beast wished to run, surely her keen-eyed escorts could easily overtake it.
As the horse slowed back to its hoof-dragging pace, she looked out over a rippling plain. Here, the land was torn asunder, the grassy flesh laid open with gaping holes and trenches far into a treeless distance. No more than a quarter-mile away a great square keep dominated the earth, rising out of the flatness like a hard fist caught in the bend of a swiftly flowing river. Built of yellowish stone, its corners were trimmed in white blocks, adding an artistic touch to what was truly nothing more than a garrison and gaol. Two walls surrounded it. While the inner one clung close to the tower, the outer one flew wide to embrace a generous expanse of bailey, its opening guarded by a gatehouse that was almost a fortress in itself.
Beyond these defenses was a third wall, this one belonging to the city that lived alongside the king's castle. Only a small portion of the houses crammed within the city's wall were visible. Rude dwellings with walls of mud and manure stood alongside the more refined half-timber buildings, their upper stories all white walls framed by dark beams.
The sight of the better abodes made Elyssa homesick for her house at Nalder, for it was of that same sort. In her memory, she wandered from her home's cellar and storeroom to the first-floor hall, where her few male servants slept and the household took its meal. The second floor was her own private domain, making it most precious to her. Spacious and airy, that room had wide windows with shutters that could be thrown back so summer might stream in and a fine brick hearth to chase winter back outside the walls. In that room did her two women spin, weave, and sew, as per her contract with Freyne, and she and Clare embroidered, their work donated to Nalder's monastery.
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