Taming The Beast

by Heather Grothaus

  This was a child’s tale, after all. No need to frighten the girl with details that were—in Michaela’s opinion—likely stretched to contain some sort of twisted moral. Michaela herself had lost enough sleep over the dreadful story, until she’d grown old enough to determine what was true and what was likely dramatic embellishment.

  “It is said that my father and the villagers searched for sign of my mother for the next pair of days, without ceasing. On the third day, father took to the village chapel and fell to his knees, begging God to return his wife and unborn child to him. He prayed that he would perform any penance if his request was granted.”

  Elizabeth swept both palms away from her stomach in a wide mound.

  “That’s right. It was just then that my mother entered the chapel, nearly scaring the life out of my father. She was unharmed, but missing both shoes, and she said to him, ‘Walter, you must never fight again. You must give your life to God as a meek and obedient servant, lest you and this child be taken from me as punishment for your wickedness.’”

  Elizabeth held her palms up, a questioning look on her face.

  “So he did. Father dismissed the men of the village who were reserved for fighting, hung his own weapons on the wall of our hall, and set to seeing only to the comfort and happiness of his wife.”

  Not willing to let even a word of the retelling slip, Elizabeth pointed to Michaela’s bodice.

  “Yes, and this, I nearly forgot.” Although she hadn’t truly forgotten, she simply didn’t wish to bring it out. Michaela reached into the neck of her gown and withdrew the chain that held the small piece of metal, like a link from a chain shirt. She held it up for Elizabeth to see. It was blackened with age, thin and bent, but unbroken. Michaela had oft wondered, if it was a link of mail, how it had been connected to its mates, being whole and unbroken with no visible seam of weld. But she had never asked.

  “This was the only thing my mother carried with her upon her return from her three-day absence. She kept it with her always and then, when I was born, placed it around my neck. When I was old enough to understand, she made me swear to never take it off, lest the Hunt return for me.”

  Elizabeth pointed at Michaela, and then hooked her index fingers on either side of her head.

  Michaela rolled her eyes. “Yes, this is what the villagers say makes me the devil. Are you content now?”

  Elizabeth nodded with an impish smile.

  “Good.” Michaela took Elizabeth’s small, pale hand and kissed it. “Do you think I’m the devil?”

  She shook her head and pulled her hand free. Elizabeth circled her crown with one finger and then flapped her hands near her shoulders.

  “An angel, am I? Oh, I daresay that is the right answer.”

  Elizabeth made the sign for angel again and then spun her arms in wide, crazy circles before falling out of her chair with a look of feigned surprise.

  “Oh, you little—!” Michaela screeched in a mockery of outrage, and fell upon the girl in an attack of tickling.

  A masculine clearing of throat interrupted their play, and both girls looked up to see a smiling Alan Tornfield standing over them.

  Michaela was completely humiliated to see Lady Juliette smirking at his side.

  “Well, I must say that you were right, Lord Tornfield,” Juliette said sweetly. “Miss Fortune does make a jolly nurse for your Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth got up from the floor and fled the hall, leaving Michaela to struggle to her feet alone, her hand slipping off the arm of the chair but once.

  “Oh, she’s not Elizabeth’s nurse, Lady Juliette,” Alan said, and Michaela wanted to think there was a bit of chastisement in his tone. “They’re…friends.”

  “Friends. Of course,” Juliette accepted. “How fortunate for Elizabeth that her father has found such a generous…friend.”

  Michaela bit her tongue until she tasted blood. She would have chewed it off at the root with her own teeth rather than say something mean and petty in front of Lord Tornfield. Any matter, Lady Juliette continued.

  “I hate to leave such entertaining company,” she simpered, “but I have a long journey to my own hearth. Good night, my lord. I hope my visit has been informative.”

  “Enlightening, certainly. I will be in touch with you very soon. Good night, Lady Juliette.”

  “Miss Fortune.”

  Michaela kept her tongue firmly between her teeth as Juliette swept from the hall.

  And then it was only Michaela and Lord Tornfield in the large, quiet room, lit by the hearth at her back. The flames bathed him in a golden glow and his hair, his mustache, his skin, looked like they were cast from that precious metal, even if his expression appeared unusually tense and preoccupied.

  Lord Tornfield held his hand out toward her, and Michaela’s favorite part of each day began as she wrapped her fingers around his forearm.

  “Amen,” Alan said in a quiet smiling voice, and then kissed the top of Elizabeth’s head before rising from the edge of the bed. Michaela stepped to the pair and added her own kiss to the little girl’s face.

  “Happy dreams, my love,” she said, and went round to the opposite side of Elizabeth’s bed to help pull the embroidered coverlet over the girl.

  Elizabeth blew kisses to them both as Alan carried the candlestick from the room, allowing Michaela to precede him through the doorway and then closing the door softly.

  Michaela was filled with warm contentment as she and Alan walked side by side down the corridor to her own chamber—easily twice the size of her room at the Fortune house. In this comfortable, loving routine, Michaela liked to imagine that she was the Lady of Tornfield, that Elizabeth was her daughter, and handsome Lord Alan was her own husband. She gave a heavy sigh as she came to a halt before her door, a reluctant good night on her tongue.

  “Lady Michaela,” Alan said before Michaela could speak. “Would you indulge me a few moments of your time before retiring? There is something of importance I would speak with you about.”

  “Of course, my lord,” she said immediately, her stomach aflutter at what could be so pressing that Lord Alan would retain her company after Elizabeth was abed.

  “It is rather private. Would it be terribly untoward of me to request we converse in my apartment?”

  Michaela’s hand slid off the door latch and she fell—hard—into the door frame. Alan’s arm shot out to steady her and a concerned frown creased his handsome brow.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Oh, yes!” She laughed. “I just…My hand slipped, is all.” She shrugged, and felt like an idiot. “We can converse anywhere you wish, my lord,” she said, trying to gather her posture and what was left of her pride.

  “Thank you. Shall we, then?”

  She followed him farther down the corridor to his door and stepped inside when he swept his arm toward the portal.

  It would have been obvious to any stranger who entered that these were the lord’s rooms by the masculine décor—dark burgundy draperies hung at the large window and around the bed, and rich fabric of that same hue covered the pair of tufted stools nestled under a small table along one wall. There were few frills, and the plush velvet seemed to breathe leather and musk. But Michaela did see a handful of signs that the chamber had once housed a female—a gilded hairbrush on a side table, a pair of dainty embroidered slippers at the foot of a painted wooden trunk—and her heart broke a little at the bittersweet feelings evoked by seeing such objects the husband had retained from his wife.

  Several candelabras had been lit by servants earlier in the eve in preparation for the lord’s retirement, and the fire crackled private secrets.

  A perfect setting, in Michaela’s mind, for what she hoped would be an intimate conversation.

  “Please,” Lord Alan invited, dragging one of the stools out for her and then setting the candlestick on the small table. “Forgive me if I seem a bit…foolish. I’ve not had a lady in this room since…”

  “I understand,” Michae
la rushed to assure him as she sat. Thankfully, her bottom connected securely with the upholstered seat. “No need to apologize.” The lovely, lovely man…

  Lord Alan joined her at the table with a quick, boyish smile. It fled his face in a blink. “I want to tell you why Lady Juliette visited me this evening.”

  “Oh, must we talk about Lady Juliette?” The almost whining plea was out of Michaela’s mouth before she could stop it, and she was mortified, even when Lord Alan smiled charmingly. “I am sorry. Do go on.”

  Alan seemed to relax a bit then, and pulled from his belt the rolled parchment Michaela had seen earlier, and handed it to her.

  Michaela unrolled the missive and let her eyes scan over the thousands of tiny, intricate letters covering the page. It would take her an hour to read it in its entirety.

  Lord Alan took pity on her. “The gist of the thing is this: Lord Roderick Cherbon, my cousin, has a stipulation he must fulfill in order to fully inherit Cherbon demesne.”

  “This says that?” Michaela questioned, and her eyes went to the page. She thought it odd Lord Cherbon would want such a private matter served up to his people for gossip.

  “No. I say that, in confidence, to you,” Alan clarified. “It is why I announced months ago that there is a possibility that I could inherit in his place.”

  “Oh,” Michaela said, giddy that Alan considered her enough to confide this bit of close information.

  “The stipulation is that he must marry a lady of good family before his thirtieth birthday.”

  “Oh, my,” Michaela gasped, not really caring, but wanting to show Lord Alan that she found anything he said riveting.

  “The problem is in this missive, and is clear to anyone who would read it, especially in light of Lady Juliette’s information. Apparently, my once-sought-after cousin is finding the bride search a bit more of a challenge than he likely thought it would be. May I?” Alan took the missive from her, shook it open, and began to skim with squinted eyes.

  “Announcement this day of…yes, yes—ah! ‘Any unmarried lady of good, titled family who is in want of a husband should immediately report to Cherbon Castle. If Lord Roderick Cherbon finds such a woman agreeable after a period of no more than ninety days and can come to a mutual agreement of marriage, upon their wedding she will be legally granted one-fifth of Cherbon’s holding to use at her own discretion. Please see Sir Hugh Gilbert upon arrival.’”

  Michaela felt her eyes widen. “That certainly is strange,” she said carefully.

  “Don’t you see?” Alan said, leaning forward on his stool, and Michaela caught her breath at his closeness. “No one will marry him now—he’s a beast! He’s trying to bribe his way to the inheritance!”

  “A beast?”

  “A beast,” Alan reiterated. “He slinks about the castle with a walking stick and in a long black cloak, keeping his face hidden. He’s frightened away each woman come to court him since his return to Cherbon. This missive only proves how close he is to losing the demesne.”

  “I see,” Michaela said, although she did not. “What has this to do with me?”

  “Your parents’ taxes aren’t the only ones in the land which can not be paid, Michaela,” Alan said with a wry smile, and her heart stopped beating for an instant when he used her given name. “If I do not inherit Cherbon, Roderick will demand my dues and I cannot pay him. This manor—your parents’ land—will be forfeited, and Elizabeth and I will lose you.”

  “Oh my heavens!” Michaela gasped. “Oh, no! I can’t…” She stopped, took a deep breath. “What shall we do? You must inherit!”

  He gave her a smile that nearly made the shock of his dire announcement worth it. “I know. And I have come up with an idea that will allow you to stay with us forever, if you wish.”

  “Oh, yes! Of course, I wish! Do tell, my lord.”

  “I have already set in motion plans for a grand feast at Tornfield in one month, and after that night, regardless of whether my cousin is successful in his search or not, we will be safe.” He paused. “Do you trust me, Michaela?” His words were like a caress.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Alan leaned even closer to her over the tabletop. “Elizabeth can not lose you. I can not lose you. You do wish to stay with us, don’t you? Truly?”

  “I do, certainly, I do.” She leaned in as well, her bosom biting into the table’s edge, but she scarcely felt it. “More than anything.”

  His lips hovered a scant inch from hers. “As do I.”

  Alan’s head moved closer.

  Michaela leaned more heavily on the table and tilted her head.

  The table toppled onto its side, knocking both would-be kissers to the floor and spilling the candle onto the rug.

  Alan shouted, jumped to his feet nimbly, and stamped out the flames.

  Michaela wanted to die, right there on the floor.

  He helped her up with a shaky laugh. “Ah, well. Best not to get carried away in an improper manner, eh?”

  “Ha-ha! Yes,” Michaela agreed. No! she screamed inside her head. No, no, no! Let’s get carried away. Please, let’s!

  But he was already walking her to the door. “Shall I escort you to your room?” Alan asked politely.

  “There’s no need for that,” Michaela reluctantly declined, trying not to let her eyes stray to the big bed at the far end of the room. “I know the way.”

  “Of course you do.” Alan smiled. He paused, took her hand, and then leaned in to press his lips—his warm, soft lips!—to her cheek. “Good night, Michaela. I wish you the sweetest dreams.”

  She gave him a genuine smile this time as he ushered her from the chamber. “Good night, my lord,” she sighed around her dazed smile, too late for Alan to hear though, as the door had already closed behind her.

  Michaela skipped the whole way of the corridor to her chamber, and only tripped once.

  But it didn’t count because she was alone.

  Chapter Four

  “I’m not going, Hugh.”

  “Oh, Rick, come on!” Hugh Gilbert flopped into the wide armchair in Roderick’s chamber. “We’ve not left Cherbon since our arrival. I’m bored out of my very skull. Do I not have a bit of distraction, I do fear I’ll start digging out my own eyes for sport.”

  “Shall I have a spoon fetched for you?”

  “Witty tonight, are we?” Hugh threw himself from the chair once more and approached Roderick where he sprawled on the floor, stretching rather ineffectively on his own. Hugh dropped to one knee and pressed Roderick’s left shoulder to the floor while he twisted his hip to the right, a hand on his thigh for added weight. “Relax your shoulders.”

  “I am,” Roderick growled, the muscles of his back feeling like hammered iron along his spine.

  “Well, try to relax them a bit more, then. All right, other side.” He helped Roderick to readjust. “Any matter, the invitation clearly stated that the feast is to be held partially to celebrate your homecoming. It’s rather rude for the guest of honor to refuse.”

  Roderick grunted. “I’m quite certain Alan Tornfield would prefer me dead upon some muddy field, now that he has chance to win Cherbon. A feast in my honor—horse shit.”

  “Well, then, don’t you at least want to see what he is truly about? Stand up—we’ll work on balance now.”

  “No, I don’t.” Roderick struggled to his feet, slapping Hugh’s hand away as he balanced on his good leg. Hugh handed him his broad sword to hold in his left hand. Roderick balanced it on its tip for a moment, to steady his swaying. “I could not care less what piddling scheme Alan thinks he’s come upon. He won’t take Cherbon.”

  “He may, if you don’t cease frightening off every eligible lady who darkens our door,” Hugh said testily. “All right then, sword out.” Roderick slowly raised the tip of the sword from the floor until it was perpendicular to his body. “Good, good, Rick—steady! Honestly, one would think you’d at least try to impress a woman the tiniest bit. It’s not as if it’s difficult
to do, the poor creatures. A kind word, a smile. Must you always slink about the keep like some great, growling ogre?”

  Roderick swayed and returned the sword tip to the floor to regain his balance and sent Hugh a black look. “How would you have me move about, Hugh? Shall I dance?”

  “That would be refreshing.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You shut up. Once more with the sword on this side.” Hugh held his hands at the ready to catch Roderick should he fall. “It would not kill you to at least be cordial.”

  “I’ve tried cordial, or have you forgotten?” The sword fell and rose again, slowly, but more steady in his right hand than it had been in months. Roderick felt a pang at the taunting memories he held of swinging this piece of metal as if it were a hollow wooden stick. “My attempts were wasted.”

  “Your smiles were grimaces, your topics of conversation dour and macabre. You shout at the servants at all hours of the day and night. It’s unsettling.”

  “Are you unsettled by it?”

  “Of course not. But I’m accustomed to it. Let’s get your boots and we’ll work on swing.”

  Roderick lowered the tip of the heavy weapon and hopped backward to sit in the armchair just behind him while Hugh brought his boots. “Then the one who marries me shall also become accustomed to it.” He leaned his sword against the chair and began the daily struggle with his footwear.

  “There is no one left to get accustomed to it,” Hugh nearly shouted, then dropped to one knee again. He sighed crossly. “Get off, I’ll do it.”

  “No.” Roderick slapped Hugh’s hands away. “I can dress myself.”

  “I never insinuated that you could not,” Hugh said. He watched Roderick struggle with his left boot. “Your thirtieth birthday is”—he paused, one thumb touching the fingertips of one hand—“one hundred ninety-two days away, Rick. What are we to do should you not marry?”

  Roderick did not answer him, only grunted as at last the left boot slid fully up to his knee.

  “Fine then. Let us forget this whole lot in England, Rick,” Hugh said quietly, emphatically. “To hell with Magnus. To hell with Alan Tornfield. To hell with Cherbon! There is no love lost between you and this land, and nothing left for me to lay claim to beyond debt. Together we can return to Constantinople and rebuild our army—your name is likened to a legend there for your bravery! Our fortunes can be reclaimed on our own terms! There we can be princes—kings! I don’t know about you, but I’ve always fancied myself as royalty.”