The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

by Domning, Denise

  The nearest chamber was his work room, the place where the more intimate details of his office were conducted. Well past the midpoint of the corridor lay the entrance to the royal bedchamber, his to use when there was no one of greater status in residence. The final door opened onto the tiny chamber where Cecilia and her keeper resided.

  Geoffrey tried not to glance down the hallway toward that distant door. Despite his will, he looked. He always did. There was no sign of his daughter.

  Entering the first door, Geoff strode within the room's dim and icy confines. Chests containing the copies of contracts and agreements the sheriff kept for shire residents hulked along its walls. Two tall desks, complete with stools for his clerks, sat close to a brazier. The glowing embers in the thing's brass pan were meant to keep scribbling fingers nimble, not heat the room.

  Near the far wall sat a chair, tall of back and thickly armed. It was a smaller version of the one in the hall, the massive piece used by the justiciar when court was in session. Geoffrey sat in his chair while Martin came to stand beside its arm. The messenger stepped forward, dropped to one knee, his head bowed.

  "Have you a reply for me?" Geoff asked.

  The man looked up, his face without expression. "My lord sheriff, Lord Ashby agrees to foster your ward only on the condition you bring the boy to Graistan keep and attend Lord Ashby's wedding to be held the day after All Saints."

  "Not fair, my mother's youngest son," Geoffrey muttered. He'd already told Gilliam he couldn't attend his brother's hastily arranged joining with the heiress of Ashby. Graistan, Geoffrey's family home, lay outside this shire, miles to the south.

  Martin howled with surprise and delight. "Gilliam? You would make your brother that brat's foster-father?" The young knight rocked back on his heels, grinning widely at the thought of his dearest friend saddled with Jocelyn of Freyne. "Were it me who did it to him, I'd say it'd serve him rightly for all the pranks he's pulled on me, but whatever has Gilliam done that causes you to hate him so?"

  "It’s a good opportunity for both." Geoffrey scowled irritably at his undersheriff.

  Martin, well aware that his propensity to laughter wore on his employer, caught back his grin. Geoff's gaze shifted to the toes of his boots as he sought to hide his irritation from the young knight. If his need for Martin weren't so great, he might have dismissed the man on the spot. But the de la Bois family had been centered in this shire since the Conquest; locked in this knight's sometimes silly brain was a wealth of knowledge about the shire and its foremost families that an outsider like himself dare not disparage.

  At last, Geoffrey freed a harsh breath at what his brother asked of him. "Damn Gilliam, but I don't have time to waste going to Graistan."

  Martin cleared his throat. "Well my lord, All Saints is yet two weeks away. With forethought, we might make more of your journey than just a ride."

  Geoff looked up at him. "How so?"

  "Four of the properties that need viewing lie not a mile in any direction off the south road. Aye, and there's that complaint against Whiteknave manor. The widow asks we remove the tenant her stepson placed in what is her dower. The court sanctions his removal. It lies only three miles off the road. And if you circle to the west on your return, you can escort the appraiser, Ralph la Porcher, onto the manors of Dyster and Stouthyrde. He complains that the bailiffs at those places resist him in the task set to him by the royal escheators. There could be others. In the meantime, I will send the summoners against the justiciars' arrival. Those who wish an escort to Crosswell can meet you along the road and take protection in your presence."

  Geoffrey stared at the young man in astonishment. Where Geoffrey would have ridden, hell-bent for Graistan, then returned at the same gut-wrenching pace, fretting all the while over the upcoming courts, Martin made use of his steps. Such ingenuity deserved recognition. Aye, and an apology as well, since it was wrong to dislike a man simply because he was good-humored.

  "Well done, Martin. The idea would never have occurred to me. And, my thanks. You tolerate your surly employer well." Geoff offered a brief smile.

  Taken aback by the unexpected compliment, color flushed over Martin's face, even touching the arched bridge of his nose. "I—I seek only to serve you well, my lord sheriff, being grateful for your trust in me. Nor do I find you surly, only liking of your solitude. Since I know I tend to the exuberant, I try to keep a tight rein in respect for your nature," he finished with a suddenly shy smile.

  Geoffrey gave a brusque nod, his mouth held in a tight line. Jesu, if this was Martin's idea of reined exuberance, he'd never survive the unrestrained man. “Well then," he said to the messenger, "if you have no more for me, go you and eat your fill. Martin, call the clerks and that boy who will be Gilliam's and let us be on to plotting my course."

  As Elyssa exited the hall door, she nearly collided with a muddy messenger on the exterior landing. Too worried and angry to notice, she flew down the steps. Is this what the sheriff called care? While Jocelyn coughed in coming illness, Lord Coudray made her son stand behind him and watch while he ate. The cruelty of it bit deeply into her heart.

  When she reached the cobbled floor of the inner courtyard, she glanced beyond the gateway to her cottage. True to his word, her warden had commanded the place be refurbished. Workmen were now laying new thatch on its roof.

  Not wishing to be alone in their presence, Elyssa hesitated. Gentle rain settled on her mantle shoulders. It was too wet to use the garden, so there was no place for her to go but back into the hall. With an angry huff, she returned to the doorway. When she reentered, the porter had his back to her, having moved into the room with the messenger. She glanced around the edge of the screen and into the hall. Jocelyn saw her, and his brows lifted in hope. The pain in her grew. There was nothing she could do for him, save pray.

  She glanced to the southeast corner of the room and Crosswell's chapel. Slipping out from behind the screen, she made her way to that holy chamber, careful to keep to the wall and out of reach from the lowest servants.

  The area set aside for worship surely reflected the depth of need in Crosswell's residents, for the room was larger than her hovel and richly decorated. Walls, dressed in a thick coat of plaster, had been painted with scenes from the twelve stations of the Cross. Even the floor been painted: red and gray-blue squares to look like tile. A marble altar stood on a low dais, covered by a cloth embroidered in silver thread. As in the hall, thick arches of stone held the chapel's roof aloft. Here, their capitals were decorated with a crosshatched design. Although there were spaces set aside for either candle or lamp, no light burned. Instead, the confines were bathed in what moist gray light flowed through the two east-facing slits behind the altar. Near the final slit in the room's corner was the entrance to the wall chamber where the priest lived.

  In a habit borne over her lifetime, Elyssa dropped to her knees before the altar step. Digging her beads from her purse, she started into the familiar routine of prayer, only to pause. Her gaze moved to the bits of colored stone. The cross at its end slipped through her fingers. What good would prayer do? Mary save her, she wasn't even allowed to spend a quiet moment with her son. Elyssa drew a quick breath. Women, mothers, should protect one another. Yet God's holy mother had abandoned her.

  "Damn you," she hissed to the Virgin, then threw the prayer strand from her.

  "Maman!" Jocelyn cried out as he flew into the chapel.

  Elyssa gasped in surprise, slipping down to sit on the floor, then sent swift words begging forgiveness and offering apologies heavenward. She threw open her arms in invitation. Instead, her son grabbed one of her hands, trying to lift her to her feet.

  "Maman, come now. He is gone from the hall. If we are swift, we can leave without his noticing."

  His words woke in her a wild flash of hope that died just as quickly. Elyssa shook her head. "Jocelyn, we cannot. You are mine no longer now that your sire and brother have died. Should we try such an escape, the sheriff would only hunt us
down and return us to this place."

  "What are you saying?" Jocelyn cried in outrage, resisting as she tried to tug him down beside her. "Do you want me dead? Maman, you saw me fall when they forced me to sit atop a horse. You must do something to save me."

  Tears trembled in Elyssa's eyes. "What would you have me do, Jocelyn?"

  His brows rose high in his forehead, while his brown eyes were liquid with hurt. "Maman, this is truly horrible for me. I am missing so many lessons. If I do not die soon, my mind will surely falter. 'Ere long, I will be but the same as my father, a dull-witted brute."

  "Jocelyn!" Elyssa gasped as she heard her own words fall from her child's lips.

  Her son ignored her as his complaints continued. "Not only that but this place is perverse. There’s a girl who comes into Lord Coudray's bedchamber at night. When I wake to say my prayers at Matins she stares at me. Last night, she tried to crawl under my blanket with me. Me!" he cried in angry astonishment. "You must tell the lord sheriff that I am to be a monk, not a knight! Monks have naught to do with tarts like that girl."

  In Elyssa's mind rose a picture of a sultry whore, the sort that a man as handsome as Lord Coudray could win to his bed. Educated by Freyne's tastes, a tawdry mélange of images flashed through her mind. Oh, but numerous were the ways Geoffrey FitzHenry might ease his base nature. The thought of that same whore laying hands on her innocent child made outrage well in her.

  Elyssa came to her knees, her heart afire. "This I will not tolerate. It’s one thing for the court to take you, but quite another for Lord Coudray to debase you."

  "Go away!" Jocelyn's voice rose to a high-pitched shriek as something small darted into the chapel. "There she is again! Now she follows me everywhere. Maman, I have had enough of her. Tell her to leave me be!"

  Elyssa caught the impression of a wee figure dashing around the altar. She shifted until she could squat at the altar's edge. Crouched at the wall between the chamber entrance and arrow slit, was a tiny girl surely no more than five.

  "This is your tormentor?" she asked, shooting her son a laughing glance.

  The child's hair, so dark a brown it was nearly black, was matted and hung around her small round face in ragged strands. Her dress had once been a pretty shade of rose but was long since faded to something softer. So too was it stained, and torn in spots, the hemline ripped halfway 'round the garment. Yet, despite the dirt on her gown and her snarls, the girl's face was clean. Her hands, as well, and her nails neatly pared.

  Elyssa looked past the shield of hair and caught her breath in admiration. The lass was a striking thing, with well-defined features, flawless skin, and fine, dark lines as brows. Her eyes dominated her face, fringed in thick black lashes with irises so gray that they were nearly clear.

  Jocelyn's shadow watched her in return, lower lip caught in her tiny teeth. Elyssa shifted in her stance, moving just a little farther around the corner. The child stiffened, her wispy brows drawing down a tiny bit, as if contemplating escape. Apparently she chose not to run, for she but scuttled a bit farther to the side, keeping herself out of Elyssa’s reach.

  Jocelyn stepped onto the altar dais and looked over the slab at the girl. "My maman says you must stop following me. I am to be a monk and will have naught to do with women."

  The girl gazed at Jocelyn. Where there had been fear in her face when she looked upon Elyssa, there was only curiosity for the boy.

  "Maman, you must say something," Jocelyn insisted, turning to look at his dam.

  The wee child's gaze darted back to Elyssa, her lips mouthing the word "maman" and her brows raised as if in question.

  Fascinated, Elyssa lay a hand against her breast. "I am his maman," she said in soft explanation, pointing to Jocelyn.

  The girl's eyes widened, and her brows raised in surprise. She glanced from the woman to the boy. When her gaze returned to Elyssa, she frowned in wary disbelief, as if such a thing couldn't possibly be true.

  "I am indeed Jocelyn’s maman," Elyssa said again. "Who might you be?"

  Jocelyn gasped. "Maman, do not speak with her. Heed me! I am falling ill." He coughed, loud and long.

  Elyssa shot a swift glance at her son only to catch herself and look again. His eyes were narrowed, and his mouth was naught but a thin line. His expression exactly mirrored the one Aymer bent on her when he intended that she would do as he said, will she, nill she.

  That woke a new and different anger in Elyssa. She came to her feet. "What is this?" she asked, her voice hard. In her ears rang the sheriff's words, saying she made herself a quintain for her son to use. "Do you speak so to your maman?"

  "My pardon," Jocelyn said with but a modicum of regret, "but you were not heeding me."

  There was a step at the door. Elyssa turned to see Crosswell's priest enter. Father Raymond nodded to her. "Pardon me, my lady, but it’s time for the lad to take his meal."

  "Maman, I do not wish to go from you." Her son threw his arms around her.

  Elyssa sighed and freed herself from his embrace, then knelt before him. She brushed the strands of his fine brown hair from his brow. "You are not leaving me. Do I not reside at Crosswell with you? Now love, go and eat. You must keep up your strength." She enclosed him in her arms.

  For an instant he stood stiff and sullen then relented and melted into her embrace. "I do not want to die, Maman," he begged softly. "You must save me."

  "Am I not here to tend you, should you fall ill?" she murmured in return.

  Jocelyn pushed back from her, his face dark with hurt. "That’s not good enough. I want to go home. I hate it here." He turned and ran from the chapel. Elyssa came to her feet, her heart yet on the floor where it had fallen with her son's words.

  "Did you come here seeking me, my lady?" the priest asked.

  Elyssa stared at him a moment, longing to spill on him her worries over Jocelyn. Ah, but all she'd get for her trouble would be tongue-lashing for daring to complain over what God had set upon her son. "Nay, Father," she sighed in defeat.

  The priest shrugged and moved into the room, kneeling and bowing before the altar. There was a scrabbling sound from behind that holy table. Of a sudden the little girl exploded around the corner, skirted the inattentive priest and flew to the door.

  "Who is that child?" Elyssa asked, staring after the girl. "It seems she's taken a fancy to my son."

  The priest looked up at her in surprise. "My pardon, I didn't see her. Even if I had, I'm not sure I'd know. We're plagued by children here, all of them by-blows. Our cook has a soft spot for them and sees them fed. Makes them swarm worse than rats, it does. Most likely, she's one of their ranks."

  "No doubt," Elyssa replied dryly. "Thank you, Father."

  When she left the chapel she found Clare waiting for her near the door screen. Glancing toward the top of the room, Elyssa's gaze found Jocelyn. It was doubly hard to lose him when he thought she'd abandoned him. If only he could understand how powerless she was.

  Clare offered her a weak smile, then lay her arm around Elyssa's shoulder in an attempt at comfort. As they walked from keep to cottage, Elyssa's thoughts drifted to the lass who’d attached herself to her son. What a shame that child was the lowest of the low, without hope of any advancement. Not only was she a pretty thing, but there had been a quick intelligence in the girl's eyes. That thought brought Elyssa to so sudden a halt, Clare nearly stumbled.

  "What is it, Lyssa?" her cousin asked in quiet concern.

  "We were speaking French, not the Englishers' language," she said to her uncomprehending relative. "That child’s not some soldier's by-blow, not when she understands the Norman tongue."

  As Clare continued to look blankly at her, Elyssa fell silent in the swift realization that Lord Coudray's daughter would speak French. Jocelyn said the girl came into the sheriff's bedchamber at night.

  "Lyssa?" Clare prodded.

  Elyssa opened her mouth to tell her cousin about the child only to shut it again. Now, why would the sheriff's daughter be wea
ring rags?

  There was a quiet knock on the door, just loud enough to startle Elyssa from her sleep. Bracing herself on an elbow, she glanced around the room. With the fire covered, there was naught but heavy darkness within these walls. Who could be tapping in the middle of the night?

  Beside her, Clare snored softly, yet deep in slumber. Elyssa yawned and decided she'd misheard. Rolling onto her side, she tried to find a more comfortable lump on the pallet that had replaced their pile of straw. Would that her bed might arrive soon. Ah well, at least this mattress was clean, the dried-grass filling yet retaining the sweet scents of summer.

  There was another tap. "Maman?" Jocelyn’s quiet call was accompanied by the hard pounding of a man's fist.

  With a gasp, Elyssa leapt up. Lacking a bed robe until the remainder of her belongings arrived, she snatched her mantle from the clothing pole on the wall and threw it over her shoulders to shield her nakedness. Her unbound hair tumbled around her as she lifted the bar from its braces and dropped it. It thudded dully against the hard floor. Oiled leather hinges, newly replaced, whispered a welcome to her son as the door swung inward.

  Framed in the portal by the predawn grayness of the sky was not only her son, but Lord Coudray. Standing behind them was a troop of horsemen, their mounts stamping and snorting. Over the rattling of harnesses, men coughed and swore softly against the cold morn air.

  Elyssa stared at Jocelyn. Beneath his cloak, her son wore a heavy brown tunic with fur cross-gartered to his legs. Gloves covered his hands. Traveling attire. A terrible notion occurred to her. She bit her lip and looked at the sheriff.