Velvet Bond

by Catherine Archer

  Willow fidgeted, as if sensing Elizabeth’s unhappiness. “Sweeting,” his wife said in carefully controlled tones, setting the little girl gently on her feet. “Why do you not go and ask Jean for a cup of milk and a sweet?”

  Elizabeth took her to the door of the solar and saw her on her way. “Be careful on the stairs,” she added as the child scampered off.

  “My dear lord.” She spoke evenly, closing the door carefully and turning to Raynor again. “I must have you understand that I could not have consulted you on this matter, had I desired to do so. I see you not at all. You have not so much as eaten a meal in my presence, let alone presented yourself for discussion.”

  He blanched, knowing there was some truth in what she said. But that did not give her the right to keep making decisions without his permission. “I am a busy man,” he reminded her. “I was gone longer than I had planned to be. My lands do not run themselves.”

  She smiled, but there was not the least hint of warmth or humor in her eyes. “I can and will see to the running of this keep. That much you will not deny me, my lord husband. It is my right.”

  “It is not your right to make purchases.”

  She spoke slowly, as if to a half-wit. “It is, if I use my own moneys.” She stood, her hands clenched at her sides.

  He stared down at Elizabeth, feeling completely frustrated in the face of her refusal to listen to him. Words burst from Raynor, all his frustration emerging in anger. “What gives you the right to supersede me, to come into my home and order everything to suit yourself? You change what you will, cleaning and decorating, removing windows, as if you had some right.” He waved a wild hand. “You have even taken over my child.”

  All thoughts of staying calm and rational flew from Elizabeth’s mind. She knew he had been hurt in his past and did not trust himself to love a woman. But that did not give him the right to sentence her to an existence of utter uselessness. She would order this keep as its lady should. It was her only hope of having any kind of life. Raynor couldn’t possibly think she could sit in her room doing nothing for the rest of her years on this earth.

  She stood tall, not giving an inch. “My lord husband, I will not languish in this tower like some maiden in a fable. You may not want me, but I can do some good here, and I will. This castle was in a disgraceful state. Not that I blame your women. They are not the lady of the keep, and thus have no authority to set things right. But I do, and I will. And as far as Willow is concerned, you hardly have a right to the term father. The child was running wild about the demesne, like a serf. Do you have no thought to her future? What man would have her without a proper upbringing? She is your heir, sir, barring the birth of a son, and you give no more thought to her than if she were a pet.”

  He growled deep in his throat. “How dare you!”

  She raised her chin. “I dare much, my lord. You have no concept of living with a real woman, and think to judge me by your mother. This will not serve for me.”

  Elizabeth glared up at him defiantly. The time had come for Raynor to begin to face some truths. She spun on her heel and stalked out, leaving him standing in her solar alone.

  * * *

  To her complete surprise, Raynor was in the seat of honor at the high table when she came down for dinner. He was speaking to Jean, the head serving woman.

  It was the first time he’d dined with them since they had arrived, and Elizabeth seemed to be the only one to notice. Apparently Raynor always had come and gone as he would.

  Of course, who here would say him nay? Bronic was the only one who might do so, and he seemed no more interested in the finer rules of daily living than his brother.

  Mayhap her conversation with him earlier had made some imprint on Raynor’s thinking.

  She halted the thought immediately. Elizabeth knew better than to really think that might be the case. It was most likely no more than coincidence that her husband had decided to make an appearance at last.

  As she came within a few feet of them, Elizabeth could hear him asking, “Why is the meal not begun?”

  It was Elizabeth who replied, with studied blandness. “Because I have instructed them to await my arrival.” Unhurriedly she took her own place next to him.

  To her surprise, Raynor accepted this without retort. Neither did he comment on the fact that the table had been set for them with her own pewter cutlery and plate.

  As soon as Elizabeth gave the signal, the servants brought out huge trays of meat, stew, bread and fish, the best of the portions going to the high table and so on down the room. The first night she dined at Warwicke, Elizabeth had been appalled to find the people already eating when she came down. In patient but firm tones, she had called the head woman aside and told her that this was not to happen again. The rules of polite society would be observed as long as she was mistress of the keep.

  Raynor did not make small talk, as men were taught to do in mixed company. But he did serve her the tenderest potions of the roast deer, as would any man versed in the arts of entertaining a lady. Elizabeth had to admit that he had gone farther in attempting to be civil than she had thought he would. And he had bathed and clothed himself in a well-made tunic of forest-green velvet.

  Elizabeth had just taken her first bite of the succulent stew, flavored with dill and thyme, when one of Raynor’s soldiers, dressed in watch colors, entered through the wide oak door that led outside. He approached the head table with deliberate haste. “My lord,” he said as he halted before the lord of Warwicke. “A man is without the castle walls, begging entrance.”

  “Yes?” Raynor replied with raised brows.

  “'Tis a messenger from Lord Nigel Harrington.”

  Elizabeth felt Raynor stiffen beside her, even though they were not touching. It was as if every muscle in his body had become tight with tension.

  Through clenched teeth, Raynor replied, “Tell him that he has no more than the count of ten to leave my gates, or he will be shot.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The soldier bowed and left the hall.

  Into the stillness that lingered after him, Elizabeth asked, “Who, pray tell, is Nigel Harrington?”

  Raynor did not look at her. “He is Willow’s uncle.”

  “Her uncle? But why have you sent his messenger away without even hearing why he came?”

  Raynor did face her then, his eyes were dark brown pools of hatred. Though she could tell it was not directed toward her, she shivered. “Lady Elizabeth, I have accepted your interference in much of my life, even in the aspect of raising my child. But in this you will have no say. What your opinion is in this matter is of no concern to me. I will not be questioned or moved in the case of Nigel Harrington. And I will thank you to never speak that name in my keep again.”

  With that, he rose and strode from the hall.

  Elizabeth was stung. Whatever had she done? The man was a lackwitted imbecile. Every time she thought they were making some headway in getting along, he had to prove what he was really made of.

  Elizabeth looked up to see a garden of staring faces at the other tables. But every time she tried to meet someone’s eyes, that person looked down.

  Slowly she stood, pushed back her chair and walked from the hall.

  Not only had Raynor been unfair, but he had done so before the whole of the castlefolk.

  * * *

  Late that night, Raynor came into the hall and saw the serfs settling down for the night in the hall.

  He went to Jean, who as head woman had a place close to the fire. He watched as she shook out her bed cover over her pallet and realized that Elizabeth had been right. The cloth was worn very thin.

  The woman looked up at him, her gaze unreadable in the dim light. “My lord?”

  He hesitated before asking, “Has Lady Elizabeth gone to her bed?”

  Jean replied with a trace of never-before-heard disapproval. “And where else would she be, my lord?”

  Raynor drew back, ready to reprimand the woman, then thought
better of it. Jean had known him since he was a child, having had more care of him than his own mother. And never had she spoken an unpleasant word to him. Something was wrong with her. He had a sneaking suspicion as to what it might be.

  Elizabeth.

  Though she had been at Warwicke only a short time, the castlefolk seemed to have developed an uncommon fondness for her. He knew she worked alongside them, and they respected her for that. But it was more. Elizabeth cared. She wanted to make the castle a home, a place for all of them to take pride and comfort in.

  “I...” he began, then halted. “I fear I behaved badly this eve, and for that I am sorry.”

  “Aye, you did, my lord Raynor.” Her tone had softened. “But ’tis not me you should be saying the words to, but your lady. She knows nothing of what lies between you and Lord Harrington. As none of us do,” she added. “We are simply accustomed to this feud, and as your subjects have no right to question you on it. But Lady Elizabeth, she is your wedded wife. Though you treat her as if she is not.”

  “It isn’t fitting,” she went on, as if forgetting who she was speaking to, “her sleeping alone in that big bed night after night.”

  Raynor sucked in his breath in shock.

  Jean had gone too far, and the hand she placed over her mouth told him she knew as much.

  He stepped away from her, his jaw tight. “I will thank you not to meddle in things that are beyond your understanding.”

  She dipped a curtsy. “Forgive me, my lord. I had no right. All I know is that Lady Elizabeth is a kind and lovely woman. Any man would be fortunate to call her wife, unlike another who has been lady here in the past.”

  It hung between them, the knowledge that she spoke of his mother, but not even Jean would dare to continue with that subject with Raynor. She knew the pain his mother’s selfishness had inflicted upon them all.

  Almost against his will, Elizabeth’s face came into his mind. Her blue eyes, which could flash with anger one moment and with compassion the next.

  Deep inside himself, he longed for someone to share his life, but the ghosts of the past would not quit him.

  Raynor turned and left the keep.

  Chapter Eight

  As the weeks wore on, the one thing Raynor could not fail to credit Elizabeth for was her care of Willow. Though his wife knew nothing of the child’s inheritance, she was right in training her in the duties of a landed noblewoman.

  He could readily see the difference in Willow since she had been under his wife’s gentle tutelage. The golden-brown curls were most often tied with ribbons to match the array of tiny cotes and tunics her new mother had made for Willow. No longer did she sleep where she happened to lie down. She did not wander about the hall with bits of bread or cheese when she grew hungry, but sat at table like a miniature lady.

  Elizabeth was unfailingly patient and kind, while at the same time getting the little one to do what she wanted.

  Somehow Elizabeth had been able to give the child’s life structure and order. And far from resenting this, as one might think, Willow seemed to adore her, following her about the keep.

  Though endearing, this circumstance did give Raynor some cause for consternation. While he had resolved within himself to try to develop a closer relationship with his daughter, he did not want to do so under Elizabeth’s jaundiced eye. Because for some reason he, who controlled and was responsible for the lives and safety of hundreds of people, was nervous with the idea of openly offering his heart to a tiny little girl.

  As the days passed, he began to despair of an opportunity to put his intentions into effect.

  Then, one afternoon, Raynor was returning to the keep from the barracks when he came upon Willow unexpectedly. She was sitting on the ground, playing with a small, rounded stone, but she looked up at Raynor as he approached.

  “Good day, my lord,” she said, very politely. He nearly chuckled aloud as he realized she was perfectly imitating Elizabeth’s tone and manner of addressing him.

  “Hello, little Willow,” he answered with a gentle smile. He looked about, wondering where Elizabeth might be. There were several serfs working in the courtyard, a woman churning, a man shoeing a horse, another woman carding wool, and various others, but there was no sign of his wife. “Are you alone?” he asked.

  “Beth is making cheese,” she told him. She wrinkled her small, turned-up nose. “It smells bad.”

  This time Raynor did laugh. He had to agree. He liked cheese as well as the next man, but the sharp richness of hundreds of rounds was a bit overpowering in the cool storage chamber beneath the castle.

  He gave his daughter a long appraising look, which she returned, unblinking. It was as if she, too, were taking his measure. All this time he’d thought of her as a babe, but she had become an individual who had her own thoughts and attitudes.

  Now he found that having a dislike of lingering in the cold cellar linked them in some basic human way. Raynor realized that he did not know this child he’d claimed as his daughter, had not thought of her as someone to know.

  But that could be changed. And Raynor would start by doing what he’d meant to for over a week. He hunkered down close to her. “Do you recall that when I first came home with Lady Elizabeth I told you I had brought you a present?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, let’s see about that, shall we?” On an impulse that he didn’t even try to resist, Raynor held out his arms. With an ever-widening smile, Willow came into them.

  Standing, he cradled her small, warm body against his chest as he had seen Elizabeth do. Her soft curls smelled of rose-scented soap and he breathed deeply of its sweetness. Willow sighed and settled back against him. With that, a bridge was built between them. He knew it was just a beginning, but one had to start somewhere.

  It was then that Willow smiled at him, her soft brown eyes luminous with unwavering trust.

  Unexpectedly he felt a wave of such love and tenderness tighten his chest and throat that it near sent him to his knees. This was someone he could love without reservation, who might love him equally in return. What a fool he had been not to see it.

  Tears stung his eyes and he had to blink them back as he carried her to the east side of the keep. Never again would anything come between them, including himself.

  By the time Raynor reached the practice yard, he was in control of his emotions once more, but they were not lessened, only dampened down. It might frighten the little one to see him cry.

  Looking out across the field, which held targets, tilting posts, a list, and all manner of other devices necessary to practice the art of war, Raynor called to his squire. “Arthur.”

  The boy laid down his bow and hurried toward Raynor. If he was surprised to see his intractable master holding his daughter, his green eyes offered no hint of it. A sturdy lad of twelve, Arthur was dressed like Raynor. He was as alike the powerful knight in all things as possible.

  “I would have you go to my chambers and fetch the small pouch that sits atop my chest,” Raynor told him. “And bring it to me in the orchard.”

  Arthur nodded and rushed off to do as he was bidden.

  Raynor started across the grounds, as Willow squirmed excitedly against him. “What are we doing?” she asked, her brown eyes alight with curiosity.

  He pressed a finger to the end of her button nose. “That is for you to see, minx,” he answered teasingly.

  In the back of Raynor’s mind was one of the few happy memories he retained from childhood. One day when he was about six, his father had happened upon him trying to make a swing from a length of knotted rope. To Raynor’s surprise, his father had volunteered to help, and the two of them had spent an hour without tension, or interruption from his mother. The vision of that day, and his father’s relaxed smile, still lived in his heart.

  Though Willow was somewhat younger, he felt a need to share some of that past happiness with her. He leaned close to her soft pink ear. “Willow, do you know what a swing is?”

 
She nodded, her eyes enormous. “I seed one in the village.”

  “Would you like to help me make one here on the castle grounds? One that you could play with yourself?”

  She laughed and clapped her chubby hands together. “Oh, yes! I would Papa! I would like that!”

  First Raynor went to the stables and obtained a length of sturdy rope. Then he took Willow to the orchard at the rear of the castle behind the keep. There they found several rows of neatly trimmed apple and pear trees. It was to one of the small but sturdy apple trees that Raynor went.

  There was a thick limb that ran parallel to the ground, some ten feet up. It was perfect for Willow’s swing.

  He was just setting her down when he heard Elizabeth’s voice call out the child’s name.