by Merry Farmer
“You’re ashamed of me.”
It took her a beat to register what he said. “Why would I be ashamed of you?” If she didn’t know better she would have thought that Crispin had hurt feelings.
“I don’t know, Aubrey. Because I come from a dubious background? Because I serve Buxton? Because I’m opposed to King Richard? Because I’m a murderer?” He turned to face her. “Because I ‘defeated’ you?” He hesitated before saying, “Because I’m not Ethan Windale?” He met her eyes with his last words, but couldn’t sustain the contact. He shoved his goblet on the sideboard. It fell over with a clatter.
Aubrey was miserable and stunned. He did have hurt feelings. “I’m not ashamed of you, Crispin.” She understood the truth of her words as they were spoken and swallowed the implications. “I disagree with you at every turn, but I’m not ashamed of you.” He scoffed and stared at the ceiling, still not able to look at her. The gesture irritated her. “I’m not!” She threw out her arms. “Well what do you want me to say? Do you want me to say that I am ashamed of you?”
“No.” He stepped away, still not meeting her eyes.
“Do you want me to say that I’m ashamed to be ‘lord’ of Windale?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to say that I’m ashamed to be Lady Huntingdon?” He kept silent. Her heart flipped into her stomach. “Well I’m not! I did not chose this, Crispin, a fact you know full well. All I wanted to do was help my friends. I was tricked into marriage. But….” She paused and grimaced as her warped sense of compassion had brought her to the point of saying what she didn’t want to say at a time when she dreaded saying it. “I feel needed here.” She let out her breath. “There. Are you satisfied?”
His eyes had softened but his face was still stony. “Then why won’t you talk to me, confide in me?”
“Crispin, it’s not that easy!” She threw up her hands. “You don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t understand!” His shout made her jump and her anger flare hotter. “I don’t understand you because you never talk to me. I’m your husband-”
“Thanks for reminding me-”
“-and you never talk to me!”
“I don’t want you to be my husband!” The words slipped out before she could stop herself and she slapped a hand to her mouth.
“I know!” he whispered, voice cracking. “Don’t you think I don’t know that? You remind me of it every single waking instant. And some of the sleeping ones too! But guess what, Aubrey,” he took two long steps to her and she leaned back as she tried to hold her own, “I am your husband! And no one forced the air out of your lungs when you said those vows. Deception or no deception, you could have easily not come that day, you could have stopped the ceremony halfway through. You and I both know that you’re capable of such dramatics. But no, you made your choice. Now stop trying to punish me for a choice that you regret!”
He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, slamming the door as he fled into the cool dusk and away from the house.
Aubrey stood where she was, too stunned to move. Part of her wanted to lock the door behind him and part of her wanted to run after him. Temper or no temper, his accusation stung. She wasn’t punishing him. She wasn’t. Was she?
She paced along the length of the table telling herself she wasn’t over and over until she withered into the realization that she was. She was punishing the one man who had never let her down, except for when he married her. But she couldn’t very well be sweet to him and lead him into thinking that he had a chance of making her love him. She wouldn’t love him. So then why did she have to like him?
She paced the hall, waiting for him to come back so that she could apologize for losing her temper. He didn’t come. Supper was brought out and laid on the table for them and she sat and ate. He still didn’t come. As darkness fell and the autumn chill swirled into the air she began to worry about him. His supper sat on the table and grew cold. She stood and paced the room, checked over her notes of the day. She even went so far as to walk outside and look around in the dark to see if he was just lurking in the shadows. It was too dark to see anything and a cold, damp wind was blowing up a storm. She bit her lip and decided to give up and go to bed.
In their bedroom she undressed, worried that he would walk in on her at any moment, maybe even demand his rights as her husband. She took a look at the fresh, ugly scar on her side before throwing a nightgown over her head.
Still he didn’t come. The house was silent. She paced the room for several minutes, willing him to come to her. Not that she knew what she would do if he did. She went to the window and looked out, straining her neck to catch any sign of him. Biting her lip and frowning she went over to the bed and crawled under the covers She blew the candle out and lay on her back, staring at the ceiling.
Her worry was interrupted by Crispin’s heavy footfalls on the stairs. She snapped her eyes shut and rolled to her side as if she had been sleeping for hours. The door open and then shut. For several moments there was no sound at all. She did her best to fake sleep. Then she heard him walk over to the chair by the window.
She opened her eyes enough to see what he was doing. He had shrugged off his tunic and thrown it over the back of the chair and now he was pulling the boots off his feet. She watched, eyes concealed in the darkness, as he unlaced his chausses and threw them on the other side of the trunk. She could see in his movement that he was still upset. He pulled his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. The moonlight hit his pale, muscled torso and Aubrey felt her heart beat faster. He threw the shirt on the floor then paused as something out the window caught his attention. He willed himself to be calm. For several moments he stood there in nothing but his smallclothes. Her mouth watered as she looked. She cursed herself for liking it.
He turned away from the window with a shake of his head and unfastened his smallclothes. She decided to be daring and get a look at all of him. But as soon as she saw the barest hint of the thicket of black hair below his waist she squeezed her eyes shut.
She listened to him fish around in his trunk for his nightclothes. It was a struggle to remember to breathe and unclench her tensed body before he could walk over to the bed and discover her. As he slid between the sheets at the other end of the bed she hoped she would be safe, that he wouldn’t reach for her. At least that was what she thought she hoped. The frantic coil low in her body argued otherwise.
Crispin sighed as he settled. She listened to the sound of his breathing, waiting for it to even out. It took a long time, but eventually it did. She, on the other hand, remained awake and pulsing for a long time to come.
Chapter Seventeen
Ethan tugged the hood of the cloak further over his eyes as he leaned against the bustling tavern near the gate of Derby Castle. He was sick at the thought that he had trusted the wrong people. Even as he gathered the flotsam and jetsam of the forest under his banner to fight for his cause he knew he would never trust a single one of them. Except maybe for Roderick. Roderick was the one who had uncovered the truth of just how wrong he was to trust.
Jack’s betrayal was a plain as day. He stood talking to Huntingdon just outside of the cloister of Derby Castle. Ethan watched as Huntingdon asked him questions and Jack answered each one with a smile. He smiled at the man who had killed his father, taken his land, and stolen Aubrey. The hatred that burned inside of him was so hot that when Huntingdon handed Jack a small handful of coins he could feel it burning in his throat. Jack grinned at Huntingdon and clasped his hand before turning and strolling out across the courtyard, counting the coins as he thrust them in his pocket.
Ethan pushed away from the wall and followed when Jack passed him. He clenched his fists in rage under the cloak, wanting nothing more than to reach out and slam Jack across the face.
Jack dropped one of the coins. It hit the ground and he stopped as it rolled behind him. He searched the ground for it.
“Drop your blood money?” Ethan quivered with rage,
stepping on the coin.
The self-satisfied grin dropped off of Jack’s face. “Look, I can explain, mate.”
Ethan punched him in the face before he could get another word out. Jack stumbled backwards. He lunged at him and punched him again, knocking him over. Jack fell hard, coins flying. A few passing townsmen gasped and made a grab for the coins.
“Traitor!” Ethan growled.
Jack half pushed himself up on his arms, the shock in his eyes melting into loathing. “I hate to tell you, mate,” he rubbed his jaw, “but Huntingdon pays better ‘n you do.”
Ethan slammed him across the face again. This time the back of Jack’s head hit the ground and bounced off with the force of the blow. He stayed down. Ethan stood where he was, furious eyes daring Jack to say something, to move, to give him a reason to crush him like a bug. The coward didn’t even look at him.
Fueled by the bitterness of his betrayal Ethan spat, then stepped over him and on to his horse. Once he mounted he turned and walked back to where Jack was crawling to his feet.
“If you ever try to come to the camp, if you ever set foot in the forest again, I’ll have you killed.”
“Let me at least talk to Tom first, mate.”
Ethan turned his horse and nudged it forward. “No.”
Aubrey glance up from her early afternoon herb lore lesson in the garden at the rumble of a rider galloping up the lane. She craned her neck to search out the rider then handed her basket of herbs to Joanna and rushed to the front yard.
Her eyes widened at the sight of Crispin. He had been driving himself from dawn to dusk for weeks to throw together the Harvest Faire Buxton had ordered for the week leading up to Prince John’s visit. In all that time he had made it home before supper twice. The sight of him now made her bite her lip to keep from smiling and press and hand to her stomach to keep the butterflies at bay.
When he came to a stop and dismounted she opened her mouth to ask why he was home. She gasped when she saw his face. His left eye was swollen and several cuts were either bleeding or caked with dried blood from his cheekbone to his hairline.
“What happened?” She was too concerned to cringe at the emotion in her voice.
“Buxton happened.” He stormed past her towards the house, as if he expected her to be frightened or disgusted by him.
A coil of confusion and pulsating anger made her chase after him and steer him to the low wall running in front of the house. When he stopped and turned to tell her off she reached up and brushed away the lock of hair that drooped down over the wounds. He flinched and winced at her touch but steadied himself. “I’ve seen worse.”
“Where?”
“On me.” She glowered at his temper. “Remember?” He held his tongue. “Joanna, fetch me some clean water and a towel.” Joanna nodded and rushed into the house, sparing a worried look for her master. “And you,” she ordered Crispin, “sit.”
Crispin sighed and sat dutifully on the wall’s rounded top. He was tall enough that even sitting Aubrey’s head was only just above his. She brushed the hair back from his wounded face to have a closer look as he scowled in resentment, unable to meet her eyes.
“Buxton did this?” She couldn’t believe that the small, petty man had the strength to cause this much damage.
“He ordered one of the guards to do it.”
Aubrey’s eyebrows shot up. “Buxton ordered someone to smash your face?”
“Yes.”
She gaped. Ever since witnessing the confrontation between Crispin and Buxton in the chapel when Madeline and Sister Bernadette had been taken prisoner she had questioned Crispin’s relationship with his master. She’d questioned Buxton’s sanity too. Reluctant as she was to admit it, this destroyed any lingering idea that Crispin was Buxton’s lap-dog. “Why?”
Joanna returned with a small bowl of water and a cloth, handing them to Aubrey before leaving them alone. Aubrey dampened the cloth and began dabbing at Crispin’s face. He kept his mouth pressed shut.
“Well?” She cupped his rough chin with her hand and tilted his head up to get a better look at the cuts as the dried blood came away in the cloth.
“Does Buxton really need a reason to be violent?” His voice was thick and a flush came to his cheeks. Their eyes met. She caught her breath. Her hand cradled his jaw, his skin was warm and rough in her palm. She dropped her hand as if it had ignited.
“No, I guess he doesn’t.” She cleared her throat and studied his face. “Was the guard wearing mail?” Her tone rose as she realized what the rows of half-moon welts were.
“Yes.”
“Buxton had a man wearing mail hit you?” Her hands shook with indignation. She was getting used to the fact that she had been wrong about every assumption she had held since she was a girl, but the abuse in front of her made something inside her snap. It only made her more gentle as she cleaned the last of the dried blood. “Why do you still serve him?” she hissed.
“I have to.” She snorted in irritation. “You don’t believe me, but I do.” She cast a sidelong look at his scowl and folded her arms. His eyes dropped from hers the second they met. Aubrey’s chest tightened at the sight of so much shame in his otherwise strong face. “What do you think would happen if I stopped being useful to him?”
The answer looked right back at her from the welts on Crispin’s face.
“There has to be some other way,” she whispered, half to him and half to figuring it out for herself. “You can’t go on like this.”
His glance drifted across the village and he stiffened. Aubrey turned to follow his eyes but saw nothing. When she turned back to Crispin she could have sworn he had just nodded at someone.
“I’ll think of something,” he told her, distracted.
She dipped the rag in the bowl of water and finished cleaning his face, letting herself linger at the task longer than was necessary. The effort of fighting off the affection welling in her gut was exhausting. When she took a step back he stood, towering over her.
“Thank you, Aubrey.” She flushed as his expression filled with mournful tenderness. He nodded to the bowl and damp, reddish cloth. “For taking care of me.”
She didn’t know what to do with the kind words. Her mind searched for the barb in them, but there was none. And she had no barbs to give either. It was the oddest feeling, almost … normal. “Any time.” The calm, tender way that he smiled at her that made her heart beat faster. She hid the awkwardness it created by clearing her throat as she grabbed the bowl and made her way through the garden and into the kitchens.
Crispin watched Aubrey retreat to the house, long plait bouncing against her back, before starting towards the barn. Unless he was much mistaken, he had just had a civil, enjoyable conversation with his wife that had not contained an argument, in which she had touched him with care and left him with a smile. It was the kind of thing that could sustain him for days, Buxton or no Buxton.
His smile dropped and the pain in his face flared to his attention. He should have expected Buxton to turn to violence. It was short-sighted to forget that marrying Aubrey would set him off.
Jack leaned against the side of the barn, an uncharacteristic scowl on his face, one foot planted on the barn wall.
“Haven’t I told you not to come here.”
“Yeah, well, there’s been a change of plans,” Jack mumbled.
“What change of plans?”
Jack sniffed, kicked the dirt, took a breath, then looked up at Crispin and blurted, “I been found out, mate.”
Crispin blew out a breath and hit the barn wall. “Bloody hell.” He ground his fist into his palm and glowered at Jack. Jack crossed his arms and pulled himself to his full height. Jack’s face bore as many bruises as his own. He’d been discovered but he hadn’t come to Windale with his tail between his legs. He’d come ready for more.
He was a fool for considering it, but the weight of the work he still had to do for the Harvest Faire was crushing him. “Are you loyal, Jack Tanner?”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Oy, of course, mate.”
“Do you even know what true loyalty is?” Crispin stepped towards Jack, towering above him. The man could be as cocky as he wanted as long he knew when it was time to be serious.
To his satisfaction, a glint of steel pierced the man’s eyes. “Yeah, I do.”
Crispin was under no illusions that Jack thought of himself first and foremost, but he was just the sort of ally he needed. There was no denying the situation in the castle had changed. The pain that throbbed in his face was proof of that. He needed an ally. God help him, he needed a friend.
“I asked you to be my eyes and ears before, among Windale’s camp. Are you prepared to do the same thing, be my eyes and ears, my hands if necessary, at the castle, with Buxton?”
Determination and danger danced with each other in Jack’s grin. “Yeah, I can do that.”
The surreal twists his life was taking were heady enough to make Crispin want to laugh. His face betrayed no emotion though as he nodded for Jack to follow him up to the house.
Jack said a quick thank you to whatever deity would listen, going so far as to kiss the rosary wrapped around his wrist as he took off after Crispin. They strode up the hill to the manor house and in through the front door. Once inside Crispin stopped and confronted him. “Do not speak until I give you leave to speak, understand?”
“Right,” Jack nodded his answer. He stepped back to the wall and surveyed the room. The main hall of Windale Manor looked like any of the other manor halls he’d ever seen. It had beamed ceilings, a fire burning at one end of the room, and a long table with a runner, candlesticks and a few chairs around it. It all looked very normal, almost cozy.
“Crispin, is that you?” Aubrey’s voice drifted in from the kitchen along with the sound of her footsteps. A wide grin split Jack’s face in spite of himself. He honestly missed his days plotting with Aubrey. “Joanna has been teaching me about healing herbs and I made this, I dunno, I guess it’s a poultice or something for your head.” She breezed into the room with a small mortar and pestle, pounding some green goo as she chattered. “I can’t remember if it’s comfrey or borage, but apparently it helps cuts to heal faster. Sit down.”
