Roger's Bride

by Sarah Hegger

“Tired, but well enough.” Garrett motioned him to join him at the table. “I never thought I would say this, but I was never more glad to see anyone than you today.”

  “You were probably running a high fever.” Roger dragged out a disused smile.

  “I swear your sister’s confinements are killing my brain.” Garrett grew serious. “It will be the last baby for a while.”

  “I know.” Roger nodded, because he did trust Garrett when it came to Bea. Nobody loved his wild little sister more than this poor sod. “I should not have stuck my oar in your stream.”

  “This is true.” Garrett turned back to Cook. “I am attempting to wheedle some food for my starving belly.”

  “Come now, Cook.” Roger smiled at the large, stern-faced woman who had ruled Anglesea’s kitchens for longer than he had drawn breath. Cook never seemed to age, merely got larger with each passing year. “Have you nothing to feed the new father?”

  Cook crossed her arms. “I might if the father had worked even a breath as hard as the new mother this day.”

  Roger shook his head. “I cannot help you there.”

  “It was worth the try.” Garrett winked at Cook.

  Cook rolled her eyes, then with a sigh stomped off into the larder.

  Garrett studied him. “You look little better than a street cur.”

  “My thanks, I feel even worse.” Roger rested his elbows on the large, scrubbed kitchen table. “You are my last call before I find my bed tonight.”

  Garrett smirked. “Newt found what I was looking for.”

  “Are you going to tell me what that was?”

  “Do you really want to know?” Garrett placed his fists on the table.

  Roger almost wept with gratitude as Cook stomped back in and thunked a jug and two beakers, a loaf of fresh bread, some butter and a jar of fresh honey on the table between them. “Marry me, Cook.”

  “You are already married, you daft sod.” Cook smacked him upside the head and whirled about. But not before she gave a tiny smile.

  Garrett watched Cook until she left, banging the door behind her. “It is simple, really. I asked around about Sir Royce, dug into his past, and came up with the one thing he wants but could never have.”

  “That being?” Roger drank deep of the ale Cook had provided. Nowhere did they brew ale like here at Anglesea. It went down in a sharp bite of hops.

  “His lost love.” Garrett dipped a hunk of bread into honey and stuffed it in his mouth. “He lost the one woman he wanted to marry, married one he did not love and now chases every skirt he can as he tries to fill the gap.”

  Roger spread butter on his bread. God, he hoped he had not erred in leaving this in Garrett’s hands “You gave Sir Royce a woman?”

  “I gave him the woman he wants more than anything. Or the nearest thing to her I could lay my hands on.” Garrett tore off another piece of bread.

  Roger let that sink in as he ate his bread. His conscience twanged. As much as he wanted to honor his vow to Kathryn, he could not hand Sir Royce another whipping post. “You know how he treats women.”

  “I know how he treats women he does not value.” Garrett went for more bread. “But, trust me, Sally is no innocent lamb being led to the slaughter. Given a choice between life managing one difficult man and a lifetime of spreading her legs for a host of sods and beaters, she made the best choice for her.”

  “How do you know he will want her?” Roger let Garrett finish off the loaf.

  “I know Sally. She could draw a cockstand from a stone. She also happens to strongly resemble the dead girl, and she is not a woman to let a chance like this pass her by.” Garrett stared at the breadcrumbs with a mournful expression. “Do you suppose there is more bread?”

  “In the larder. Cook also always keeps a cold joint in the box just inside the door.” Roger sipped his ale and waited while Garrett made his foray and returned with a ham. “I am not sure I should have asked. You are sure this will work?”

  “It is working.” Garrett carved a slice and offered it to Roger. “Perhaps next time you will not ask.”

  Roger took the ham and ate it. “I suppose I should learn to trust your ability at finding another’s soft spot.”

  “Eh?”

  “Bea.” Roger raised his brow at Garrett to let him know he saw right through the clever dissembling. “You studied my father, found his one weak spot and struck.”

  “Ah.” Garrett looked at the table. “That did not turn out so well for me. I ended up tumbling into my own trap.”

  “Be that as it may,” Roger said. “It was a good plan, even if I did beat your head in for it.”

  Garrett held up a finger. “As I recall, you got your own head beaten in for trying.”

  He did like Garrett, and Roger smirked at him. “Let us agree to differ on that. What made you come up with this crazed idea?”

  “Ask yourself what Royce wants more than anything.” Garrett ate three more slices of meat while Roger waited. “He needs money.” Garrett ticked the first point off on his finger. “But he has that already. Having met the man, I would say losing his lady is more about losing command, and that stings his pride. Same thing with losing his daughter.”

  Roger had surmised about the same. “So?”

  “So”—Garrett grinned—“we offer him a sop for his pride.”

  Roger let Garrett revel in his moment.

  “What is the one reason a woman is ousted from a keep?”

  The game grew wearisome, and Roger merely glared at Garrett.

  “Another woman.” Garrett slapped the table. “One woman is ousted from a keep because she stands in the way of another woman. We think men are possessive.” Garrett snorted. “A vixen guarding her den is twice as vicious as her mate.”

  “What if you are wrong and he hurts this Sally?”

  Garrett gave him a look of disdain. “You have spent too much of your life farting through silk. There are women who suffer worse.” Garrett shrugged. “A man like Royce can be managed, if you understand what drives his fist.”

  “What drives his fist?”

  “Power and command.” Garrett thumped the table. “He needs to feel like the biggest hunter in the pack, all the time. Sally will have no trouble pandering to that, whilst making a tidy place for herself.”

  Roger tried to picture what sort of woman would willingly place herself in the power of a brute. “I am not sure…”

  “Trust me.” Garrett offered him another slice.

  “I cannot save one woman at the cost of another.” Roger took the ham. His belly tightened with unease.

  “Roger.” Garrett carved another slice of meat. “Not all women require rescuing. Some of them are a rather dab hand at doing it for themselves.”

  * * * *

  Roger bedded down in a small winter chamber his mother used for sewing. The deep casement made a reasonable bed, even if his feet did hang over the edge. If he went to his chamber this night, he would never be able to resist losing his sore heart in Kathryn’s warmth. He wanted her love, freely given and not attached to a growing list of conditions.

  A waxing moon rose above the ocean in a clear, star-strewn sky.

  His weary body demanded sleep, but his mind refused to rest. His arrogance had brought him to this point. Arrogance and ridiculous boyish dreams of love and happiness. He had thought all he need do was find the girl who made his heart pound and the dream would be his.

  Well, he had found the girl, and now he slept on a narrow casement seat and pined at the moon like a lone wolf.

  A slipper slithered on stone. “Roger?” Matilda said.

  Did he not have enough to worry about without Mathilda’s midnight meanderings? He sat up and pulled the furs up. “Lady Mathilda.”

  She stood halfway between him and the door, her nightrail ghostly white. “I came to see if you needed aught.”

  “Nay, I thank you.” Why did the girls in this family not see anything
amiss with wandering into a man’s bedchamber in the middle of the night?

  Lady Mathilda glided closer, and stopped near his feet. She leaned her head against the stone casement. “It is lovely here.”

  “Aye.” He did not want to discuss the view. If anyone came upon them this would be difficult to explain. “Lady Mathilda, I believe you should return to your chamber.”

  Silvery moonlight painted the delicate lines of her face. The difference between Mathilda and Kathryn were not that marked in the sparse light. “Do you?”

  “It is not appropriate for you to be here.”

  “Appropriate?” Mathilda gave a musical tinkle of laughter. “Now you sound like your Nurse.”

  “Nurse often has the right of things.” Roger stood and put some distance between them.

  Mathilda followed. “You do not sleep with your wife, my lord.”

  “You should return to your chamber, my lady.” It seemed a gross betrayal of Kathryn to have this conversation with anyone other than her.

  “I thought you might be lonely.” Lady Mathilda trailed her finger over his shoulder and down his arm. “I thought you might turn to me for comfort, as you did before. In the stable.” She blew him a kiss, and then floated down the passage away from him.

  He saw her damned game now. Tonight had confirmed his suspicions arising from her behavior before he left for London. That night in the stable, on the eve of his departure had been a mistake. He should never have allowed himself that moment of weakness. Never allowed her hands on him. Lady Mathilda had the morals of a cat. And, sadly, the unwavering loyalty of a sister who she in no way deserved.

  Chapter 33

  Kathryn barely slept. The bed seemed too large and empty without Roger and she spent the night curled in a chair before the hearth. She woke with a stiff neck and a mood fouler than the rain clouds blocking out the morning sky.

  Matty barreled through the door with a bright smile. “Good heavens, Kate. Do get up. The day is almost half gone.”

  “Kathryn.” She eased the cricks in her back and stumbled to the washstand.

  Matty stuck her hip out and huffed. “I do not know why you must insist on being called Kathryn. There is nothing wrong with being called Kate, and it sounds so much sweeter than Kathryn.”

  Matty knew why she hated the name Kate. Kathryn splashed icy water on her face and came up gasping. “Leave it, Matty.”

  She hobbled to her clothes tree and grabbed a bliaut.

  “Will you wear that?” Matty grimaced.

  The plain wool bliaut had come with her from Mandeville. Dark blue, serviceable and perfect for normal day activities. “Aye, I am.”

  “Well.” Matty tossed her head and smoothed her blue silk bliaut over her hips. “If I was married to a powerful lord, I would do a bit more to look the part.”

  “You had the chance to be married to a rich lord.” Kathryn lost the reins on her temper. “You chose to marry a farmer.”

  “Kate.” Matty drew a sharp breath. Her lip quivered and tears swam. “How can you be so cruel?”

  Easy, when her entire world had been turned topsy-turvy. Kathryn dived into her chemise and laced it.

  Matty slouched near the hearth, sniffling.

  Normally, Kathryn would have rushed to comfort her, but she did not feel inclined to tolerate Matty’s barbs this morning. “Have you eaten this morning?”

  “I waited for you.” Matty wiped her eyes with her sleeves.

  Kathryn dragged her despised bliaut over her head. Unlike silk bliauts, this one laced at the side and she had no trouble fastening it. Who had been lacing Matty into her bliauts?

  “I wanted to speak to you of Roger.” With an arch look, Matty sidled closer to her. “He shuns your bed?”

  Shuns! Who was Matty to speak of her marriage? Matty who sheltered here because of her own bad choices. “He does not shun my bed.”

  “Then why is he sleeping elsewhere?” Matty cocked her head, looking thrilled.

  The notion twisted within Kathryn. Then again, Matty had always been thus with her. If Kathryn had a new toy, Matty wanted one just like it, if not better. But, God’s teeth, they spoke of husbands now.

  “That is between Roger and me.” She mustered as much dignity as she could. “Let us break our fast.”

  During the meal, Kathryn studied Matty’s behavior as she never had. Seated between Garrett and Roger, Matty smiled and giggled. Laying her hand first on one arm and then the other. Leaning too close to whichever man spoke.

  Beatrice had stayed abed. Lucky for Matty she did, because Beatrice would not have tolerated the outright flirting. Dear God! Had they not enough to deal with, without Matty stirring the coals?

  With Matty, Roger managed a smile, but for her he had nothing but a cold, polite silence. She wanted to shove herself between them and push them apart.

  Matty giggled and threw Roger a coy glance.

  Kathryn surged to her feet. Her chair screeched against the flags. She would wring someone’s neck if she stayed much longer.

  Roger and Garrett hurried to rise but she waved them down. “Finish your meal.”

  She ran down the stairs and into the bailey. Reaching the stables, she slipped inside. The smell and sound of horses calmed her enough for a deep breath.

  Peter nodded to her. “Shall I get Striker for you, my lady?”

  Kathryn nodded, not calm enough to speak. Her morning mood had worsened, if that was even possible. She wanted to shake Matty until she shook that smirk off her. What had happened to them? They had always been the best of friends, closer than any two sisters. Now, everything had changed. She did not understand Matty, or—God forgive her—like her sister much.

  Matty seemed to care for nobody but herself. Even her attempts to comfort the family were like shouts for all to look at Matty. Matty knew she and Roger had slept apart the night before. Instead of offering comfort or counsel, her sister had come to her chamber and gloated. Then sat at breakfast and made cow eyes at Roger.

  Peter led Striker toward her, and helped her mount.

  Kathryn waited until they had cleared the main gate before she let Striker have his head. Across the flower speckled meadow, they tore, and into the dappled shade of the beech thicket.

  Striker took the path to the village and she let him.

  Without having formed the conscious thought to do so, she stopped outside the small inn where Digory waited.

  “My lady.” Harrow, the innkeeper, bowed low as she entered. He clasped his hands before him, his round face sorrowful. “Any news of Sir Henry?”

  “Nay.” These people had known Henry since his infancy. Of course they would be waiting for news. “Roger returned from London yesterday, but he had no more news. Until we find out differently, we continue to believe he found a way to escape the battlefield.”

  “We pray for that, Lady Kathryn.” Harrow nodded, his cheeks jiggling. “We have kept a constant prayer vigil since we got word. How fares dear Lady Mary?”

  “You know Lady Mary.” The strongest woman Kathryn had met. “She bears it well, but it weighs on her.”

  “Aye, aye.” Harrow nodded again, his head bowed. “Give her our best, would you, my lady. Let her know we keep all of you in our prayers.’

  “I will.” A lump formed in Kathryn’s throat. Suddenly her sour mood seemed petulant and childlike in the face of Harrow’s sincerity. The Anglesea family was well loved by the folk of their demesne. The same folk who had opened their arms and accepted her as one of them.

  “We had some good news last night,” she said.

  Harrow straightened and rubbed his palms together. “We would all do with a touch of that. Do tell, Lady Kate.”

  She opened her mouth to correct him and shut it again. When Harrow called her Kate, he meant it with affection. A tiny bond he forged between them. “Lady Beatrice had another boy last night. A fine healthy lad they call Geoffrey.”

  Harrow pinkened a
nd beamed. “Well, well!” He patted his belly. “That is the very best kind of news. Our Lady Bea a mother again. Such a treat she was as a child. Always tearing about hither and thither, laughing and smiling. Oh, that is fine news.” Leaning forward, he gave her a broad wink. “I feel sure our Lady Kate will have some news of her own afore long.”

  Their Lady Kate. As if she belonged here. Strangely, the idea did not make her feel fettered. Instead, it warmed her within, in a cold, secret place she had not acknowledged in years. Anglesea was her home now. So, where did that leave her and Roger? She needed to think on it, but later when she could find some time alone. “I am here to see Digory,” she said.

  “He be in the common room.” Harrow jerked his thumb. “Quiet lad. Does not say much, or drink and wench like a lot of the travelers we get here.”

  Digory looked up from the table where he broke his fast. He gaped at her for a long moment before scrambling to his feet. “Lady Kathryn. Is it Matty? Is she ill?”

  “Nay, nothing like that.” She took the seat opposite him and motioned him to continue his meal. “I came here to speak with you.”

  “Aye.” Digory took his seat slowly.

  “Tell me again.” Kathryn needed to hear him, and this time with as open a mind as she could manage. “Tell me all of it. Start from when you met Matty.”

  Digory frowned. “Lady Kathryn I do not see—”

  “Please.” Her head felt heavy and she rested her chin on her palm. “Tell me everything.”

  She stayed with Digory through the morning. Harrow brought her tea and scones as she listened. And Kathryn really listened. Not as Matty’s staunchest defender but how Roger or Sir Arthur would have heard the story when Digory spoke with them.

  Her ride back took much longer, as she had much to think on. Digory’s picture of life with Matty struck a chord of truth. Kathryn could not see Matty taking to domestic duties. When she and Roger had first found her, the state of the cottage spoke to that.

  Had Matty grown tired of marriage, and decided to move on? Did she view it as an old, worn-out wimple that could be tossed in a corner for something finer or newer or shinier. Which brought up the state of her marriage. If Matty had tossed her old wimple aside, had Kathryn shoved hers to the bottom of the chest and tried to forget about it?