by Tamara Leigh
When he waved it at her, she took it, her gaze falling immediately on the broken wax seal gracing the outside. Though she had never seen the royal signet, she knew with certainty that what she held had, indeed, come from the king. Heart sinking, she unrolled the parchment and read the first lines, but could go no farther.
"Why?" she croaked, groping for something to hold to, but finding naught. If the Charwyck properties were lost, what was to become of her father, an old man no longer capable of lifting his sword that he might earn his fortune? And what of her? She would not be needed to produce a male heir—thus, of little value. Certainly William would not wed her without benefit of the immense dowry she would bring to their union.
"For offenses committed by your brother, Philip Charwyck," Sir Royce explained as he pried the document from her fingers before she damaged it.
Graeye swayed, but managed to stay on her feet. Taking a deep breath, she looked entreatingly at the man. "I do not understand. What offenses do you speak of?" She stole a glance over her shoulder to where her father had grown quiet.
"Murder, pillaging ..."
Remembering her brother's disposition, the accusations should not have surprised Graeye, but they did. "Surely you are mistaken," she said, desperation raising her voice unnaturally high. "'Twas my brother who was murdered. Why do you not seek out the perpetrator of that crime?"
Looking bored, the man rolled his eyes back as if he sought guidance from a higher being. "As I have told your father, Philip Charwyck was not murdered. His death is a result of his own deceit."
"What did—"
Sir Royce held up his hand. "I can tell you no more."
"You would take all that belongs to the Charwycks and yet refuse to tell me what, exactly, Philip is accused of having done?"
Sir Royce folded his arms across his chest. "Your fate rests with Baron Balmaine of Penforke. " 'Tis his family the crime was committed against, and King Henry has given the care of these properties to him."
Graeye barely had time to register this last shocking news before her father erupted again. "Curse the Balmaines!" he yelled, renewing his struggles. "With my own sword I will gut that bastard and his whore sister."
His patience worn through, Sir Royce signaled his men to remove Edward.
Rushing forward, Graeye came to her father's defense as best she could. "Nay," she cried, following the knights as they half dragged, half carried Edward across the hall. Her efforts to halt their progress were to no avail, for she was thrust aside each time she stepped into their path. Neither William, nor the steward, were of any help. As if great pillars of earth, they remained unmoving.
Desperate, she hurried back to where Sir Royce stood watching impassively. "Where are they taking my father?" she asked, touching his sleeve. "Surely he has committed no offense."
"He must needs be held whilst he is a danger to others," he said, looking pointedly to where her hand rested on his arm.
She dropped her hand but continued to stare into his hard, unmoving face " 'Tis a great blow he has been dealt," she said. "Not only has the king taken everything he owns, but he has given it into the hands of my father's avowed enemy."
"Lady Graeye," the man began, running a weary hand through his cropped silvery hair, "I do not fault your father for his anger. " 'Tis simply a measure of safety I take to ensure Medland passes into Baron Balmaine's hands without contest."
"Then he will be coming soon," she concluded.
"A sennight—no sooner." Finished with her, he turned and walked to where his knights were gathered near the doors.
So many questions whirled about in Graeye's mind, she thought she might go mad, but she knew that pursuing the matter would be useless. Lifting her chin, she turned and looked across at William and the steward.
"All is lost," she said, pushing the words past the painful tightness in her throat.
At their continued silence she left the hall. Without benefit of a mantle to protect her against the lingering chill of morning, she set out to discover her father's whereabouts.
She knew full well the precipice upon which his mind balanced, and was worried for his welfare. Also, she needed to ask him whether she would be allowed to remain at his side to care for him, or if he intended to return her to the service of the Church.
It was no great undertaking to discover where Edward had been taken, for with expressions of concern castlefolk pointed Graeye to the watchtower.
Along her way there, she became increasingly uneasy by the great number of the king's men positioned about the walls. They were alert, ready to stamp out any signs of uprising. That unlikely possibility almost made her smile. Not only was the number of Edward's retainers considerably depleted from Philip's foray to the north, where he had given up his life for a cause as yet unclear to her, but few would be willing to challenge the king's men for their lord. They disliked him so.
At the watchtower a surfy knight halted Graeye's progress. "You would do well to return to the donjon, my lady," he said. "No one is allowed to see the prisoner."
"I am his daughter, Lady Graeye," she explained. "I would but see to his needs."
Shaking his head, the man placed his hands upon his hips. "My orders are clear. No one is allowed within."
"I beseech you, let me see him for but a short time. No harm will be done."
He wavered not a notch, though she thought perhaps his eyes softened. "Nay."
Later Graeye would question what drove her to be so bold. Grasping her skirts, she ducked beneath the man's elbow and managed to make it up the flight of steps before encountering the next barrier. The first knight close on her heels, she came to an abrupt halt when faced with the two men who guarded the room where her father was imprisoned. They had heard her advance, for their swords were drawn and trained upon her.
The knight behind needn't have gone to the trouble of seizing hold of her, for she could go no farther. "You—" He snapped his teeth closed on his next words.
Unable to check the tears flooding her eyes, she looked up at him. "Just a moment," she choked. "'Tis all I ask."
The angry color that had flooded his face receded; then, miraculously, he acquiesced. "Very well," he said, a corner of his mouth twitching in a slight smile, "but only that—a moment."
Releasing her, he motioned for the guards to stand away. They resheathed their swords and stepped back, their eyes never leaving her.
After a brief hesitation, during which Graeye was certain he had reconsidered the wisdom of allowing her to see her father, the knight threw back the bolt and opened the door.
Murmuring her gratitude, she stepped past him and entered the frigid room. She had expected to be given privacy with her father, but the man had no intention of allowing that. His great bulk throwing a shadow across the floor, he stood in the doorway as she crossed to where Edward huddled in a corner of the room.
She lowered herself to the floor and waited for her father's acknowledgment. His forehead resting on arms propped upon his knees, he seemed not to notice he was no longer alone.
Her heart swelled with compassion for the pitiful heap he made. True, he had often been unkind to her, had never loved her, had not once inquired as to her welfare at the abbey, but he was her father. He was a man who had lost everything—his son, the grandson who would have become his heir, his home, and now his dignity. Everything gone. Would the remainder of his mind go too?
Her eyes pricking with tears, her throat tightening, Graeye laid her hand to his shoulder. She wanted to embrace him, yet knew she risked much with just this simple gesture. "Father," she said softly.
He did not move.
She spoke again, but still no response. Was he ill?
Moving nearer, she slid an arm around his shoulders. "Father, 'tis I, Graeye."
Lifting his head, Edward stared at her. Then, suddenly, he came to life. "You! 'Twas you who brought this upon me. Aye! Spawn of the devil." Swinging his arm, he landed his hand to her chest, knocking her over.
>
Her back to the cold floor, Graeye drew a shuddering breath, surprised she was able to do so at all.
"I should have left you with the Church!" Edward roared, lurching upright to stand over her before she could gain her feet. "For this offense I am to be punished to everlasting hell!"
Glancing at the knight, who remained unmoving in the doorway, Graeye slowly rose and stepped back a pace. "I have come to see to your needs," she said, clasping her hands before her.
"My needs!" Edward spat, then thrust his face close to hers. "And what else have you come for?"
She met his stare. "I would also know what is to become of me," she answered truthfully.
He laughed, a loud, raucous noise that died abruptly. "And what do you think your fate should be, daughter?"
"I—I would stay with you."
"Stay with me?" he repeated, mimicking her voice.
"And of what use would you be now that all has been taken?"
"I would care for you. You will need—"
He seized hold of her. "I do not need the devil on my shoulder."
" 'Tis not true—"
"Know you that twice your mother bore me sons. Sickly things that lived no more than a few days? Then she bore me you with the devil's mark full upon your face—strong and healthy. And then no more."
This was the first Graeye had heard of it. Never had her mother spoken to her of those children who had come before. It explained so much of her father's treatment of her. But now that she knew, mayhap she could do battle with it—find a way to reach him.
"Nay," he continued, "you will return to the abbey. As the Church has already received your dowry, your place there is secure. That Balmaine cannot take from me."
She pulled free from his punishing hands. "I do not wish to return!"
"Think you I care what your preference is?" he ground out, hate coursing from his every pore as he advanced on her again. "You are ungrateful. Many a daughter would vie for the soft life of a nun. But you— 'tis the devil in you that resists. Nay, 'twill be my final offering to God. You will return."
"You need me!" she declared. Deny it he might, but it was true. What would become of an old man alone in a world so changed from what he had previously known? And what of her? She could hot simply wander out into the world without a man to protect her.
"Need you? Nay, I needed but your body. Blood of my blood. A vessel for the heir you would have made with William. Now— ," he gave a short burst of crackling laughter—"you may either return to the abbey or go back to the devil whence you came. That is the only choice I give you."
His words—the air of hate they drifted upon—cut deeply. Hope faltering, dread fear-in her heart, Graeye backed away.
"And do not let me see you again without your nun's clothing!" he yelled.
She was surprised when she came up against the knight standing in the doorway. Wordlessly, the man drew her outside and slammed the door closed on Edward. There was silence; then a great clamor arose as the old man threw himself against the door, his curses vibrating through the wooden planks.
"My lady," the knight spoke to Graeye's bowed head, "'twould be best if you returned to the donjon now." At her sullen nod he gently took her arm.
She was grateful for the support he lent, for otherwise she would surely not have made it down the steep stairway, so blurred was her vision.
At the bottom she expected him to send her on ahead, but he did not. Instead he led her past the curious stares of the castlefolk and soldiers and did not relinquish his grip until they stood within the hall.
She offered him a brave smile. "My thanks, Sir ..."
"Abelaard," he said with a sweeping bow.
Her smile grew more certain, but nonetheless remained a thin, tight-lipped line. "If you will wait but a moment," she said, stepping away, "I will gather blankets that you might take them to ensure my father's comfort."
A thick silence followed that had her turning back to face him. Too late she realized it would be beneath the knight's rank to perform such a duty for her.
"My apologies," she murmured. "I will send a servant."
Looking relieved that he didn't have to refuse her, he offered her an uneven smile. "My sister is a nun," he said gruffly. "'Tis not a bad life she has."
Graeye stared at him, watching as he grew uncomfortable with the effects of his poorly timed, though well-meaning, disclosure. "I fear you do not understand, Sir Knight," she said, then turned and left him.
It was difficult to find privacy where she could vent her distraught emotions, and in desperation she returned to the small chapel abovestairs.
Kneeling before the altar, she clasped her hands to her breast and tried to offer up prayer. However, there was simply no room for such devotions. All of her hopes were dashed forever by the coming of the treacherous Baron Balmaine. She drew a shuddering sob, then cried as she'd never cried before—and vowed she would never cry again.
Chapter 3
With all the extra mouths to feed and bodies to bed in a hall that suddenly seemed inadequate, Graeye had had little time throughout the day to dwell on the terrible misfortune that had befallen her father—and the fate awaiting her.
Now, however, as the night deepened and sleep refused to wrest her churning thoughts from her, she found herself reliving each nightmarish detail. She did not allow herself to dwell on the confrontation between her and her father. It simply hurt too much. Instead she fixed upon the events that preceded and followed that encounter.
She recalled the painful conversation with Sir Royce, Sir Abelaard's parting remarks, the flood of emotions that had assailed her in the chapel, and afterward her encounter with William—one that might have gotten out of hand had she not put a quick end to it.
Amid the preparations for the noon meal, she had come face-to-face with the angry knight who had sought no cover in which to deliver his cutting, hateful words.
Without thought, and before the servants, she had struck him across the face with all the strength she could muster. Fortunately, he had been too surprised to retaliate, allowing her to flee the hall and seek safely in the kitchens.
During supper, the tables overflowing with the addition of the king's men, she had spent an uncomfortable hour beneath the watchful gaze of both Sir Michael and William. Afterward the younger knight had twice attempted to corner her, but each time she had successfully evaded him. No good could possibly come of allowing him too near.
Truly, it had been the most difficult day of Graeye's life. But it was the pity that bothered her the most. It shone from the eyes of the castlefolk, and, surprisingly, many of Edward's knights. Even the king's men cast their sympathy upon her.
Pity, though, was not what she needed. She had already wasted far too much time indulging in that useless emotion. What she needed was a plan, one that would make it possible for her to stay at her father's side. Though it seemed all was well and truly lost, after her time in the chapel she had determined she would not abandon her quest to remain free of the Church. She would find a way. But how?
Twisting upon her bench in an attempt to get more comfortable, she winced at the disgruntled rumble that drifted up from beneath her.
Throughout the day Groan had become increasingly testy at the changes in his home. There were too many people, too much commotion, and the air of gloom that hung over all was as tangible as the morsels the dog had been denied due to the shortage of viands. Nevertheless, he had never strayed far from her side— except that one time when William had cornered her.
He rumbled again, but more loudly.
Frowning, Graeye leaned over the side of the bench and searched out the dog's glowing eyes. "Shh," she breathed, reaching out to him.
"Lady Graeye.'' A man's whispered voice halted her hand midair.
Stifling a scream that would have awakened all in the hall, Graeye pressed herself back on the bench and peered at the still figure that stood less than a foot away.
Was it William come to seek r
evenge for the offensive slap she'd given him earlier? she wondered, fear mounting. If so, she would gladly awaken all to avoid whatever the wicked man had in mind for her.
"Who goes there?'' she whispered, hugging her blanket to her.
Groan rumbled another warning.
Ignoring the dog's threat, the figure bent down and leaned nearer. " 'Tis I, Sir Michael."
Graeye was relieved, but still alarmed that he would seek her out in the middle of night. "Wh-what do you want?" she asked, easing her hold on the blanket.
"I must needs speak with you."
"We can speak on the morrow," she said, wishing he would leave her be so that she could return to her search for a way out of her dilemma.
"Nay, we must needs speak now."
"Shh," she hissed. "Do not talk so loud. 'Twill awaken the others."
"Then come with me."
She drew back from the hand that attempted to urge her from the bench. "Be gone, Sir Michael. On the morrow will be soon enough for us to talk."
Without further word the young knight slid an arm beneath her and scooped her from the bench. Though Graeye's immediate response was to protest his boldness, she checked the indignant words for fear of awakening the others.
True, she was angered that Michael would be so free with her, but she did not fear him as she did William. Besides, the scrape of claws over the floor told her Groan was close on Michael's heels and had no intention of leaving her to fend for herself should she have misjudged the young knight
Resigning herself to the conversation Michael was forcing her to, she grabbed fistfuls of his tunic and held tightly to him as he picked his way over the sleeping bodies and carried her to the stairway.
Though not of a great height or build, Michael proved surprisingly strong, easily negotiating the stairs to the first landing, where a torch flickered. Grimacing at Graeye's undisguised anger, he lowered her to her feet.
"Forgive me, my lady," he apologized.
After adjusting the chin strap of her wimple, Graeye jerked the blanket closed over her shoulders and glared up at him. " 'Tis quite unseemly behavior, Sir Michael," she reprimanded, comforted by the press of Groan's body against her side.
