Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Love Never Lies
By
Rachel Donnelly
Copyright 2011 Rachel Donnelly
England 1147
Prologue
Being naked was a wonderful thing. To the Lady Isabeau of Dawney it was the most delicious pleasure in the world, at least it soon would be, once she discovered the mystery behind the good fortune of her hot bath.
Usually the water had grown tepid by the time her sister, Nicola, finished bathing in the big, round, tub before the blazing hearth in their solar. But tonight, Nicola was not here. After fourteen winters of coming second—Isabeau’s entire life in fact, the clear, steaming water gave her cause to celebrate.
She loved Nicola, of course, but could do very well without sharing her soap scum. And, according to their old nurse, Maddie, for a goodly time she wouldn’t have to. Tonight would be the first of many steamy soaks.
The only question was—why.
Isabeau leaned her head back on the rim of the tub, gazing through half- closed lids at Maddie who stood some feet away before the hearth. “Hesper told me my life was about to change.”
Maddie swung her sturdy girth from the fire, green gaze narrowed, voice sharp as a north wind. “How many times have I told ye to stay away from that old witch?”
Isabeau cocked a smile, wiggling her eyebrows up and down. “But she was right this time, wasn’t she?”
“Life is always changing for better or worse. If you’d but come to me, I’d have told ye' that.” Maddie gave a huff, sending a faded copper curl fluttering above her wide brow. “The miracle is, she sits on her idle rump and is rewarded for such falsehoods.”
“’Twas only a few oatcakes.” Isabeau shrugged, immune to Maddie’s censure after so many years of her strict guardianship. “‘Tis the only way Hesper can survive, cursed with her infirmity.”
“Umf! Infirmity my eye. One leg is a finger shorter than the other, that’s all. ‘Tis no worse than a pimple on the arse.”
“It puts her off balance.”
“Yea, she’s off balance.” Maddie turned back around to give the fire a sharp stab with the iron poker. “And it’s settled in her head.”
Isabeau chuckled. She didn’t bother to tell Maddie Hesper’s second prediction, for fear she might spill forth a string of hair-curling oaths and fly off into a fit. Besides, what could it mean she would find danger in the woods? There was always danger—wolves, thieves. Danger was everywhere for those who were not wary. “I don’t understand,” she said, switching to the subject weighing most heavily on her mind. “Why should Nicola go home and not I?”
“’Tis not a reward, my pet, if that’s what ye be thinking.” Maddie waddled forward with a fresh bucket of water balanced in her hands. “Her wicked ways are sending her from your Uncle’s home.”
Isabeau let forth a bark of laughter. “Nicola? Surely you jest.” Her sister couldn’t be wicked if she tried. She was dutiful to the extreme—the stick by which Isabeau had been measured all of her life. Try as she might, Isabeau could never live up to her meek and gentle ways. Maddie was forever scolding Isabeau to laugh softer, mind her tongue, and slow her gait to a modest shuffle whenever she entered the hall.
“Call it what you will.” Maddie wiped the back of her hand across her freckled brow, then picked up a cake of lavender soap to scrub Isabeau’s back. “‘Tis one visit, you’ll be grateful ye missed.”
Isabeau doubted that very much. She hadn’t been home since Michaelmas, four agonizing months ago. She missed her parents immensely. Two visits home a year were not enough to bask in the glow of that joyous household.
There was no such happiness here. Uncle Royce’s grim, battle-worn face could smite the joy from her heart with nary a glance, and her cousin, Barak, was no better. All he ever talked about was politics and war.
The atmosphere had grown worse since Aunt Winifred died, though she had held little sway, bedridden as she was. Her feeble protests had fallen on deaf ears. Men’s needs and wants ruled the hall. If not for Father Clarence, their young priest on loan from the Abbey, there would be no cultural or intellectual pursuits. Isabeau would never have learned to read or write.
Though the aristocracy spoke French in England and many possessed Norman-French names since the conquest, Father Clarence declared England barbaric when compared to France, the place of his birth, and destination of his future travels. He was to be sent on a pilgrimage soon.
Father Clarence’s tales caused Isabeau to rue the day her parents sent her to Marsborough Hall. He spoke so eloquently and with such passion. It made her yearn for beauty and civility. But most of all, love—the kind the troubadours sang of—the kind her parents had. Thankfully, one day marriage would rescue her from the violence of her Uncle’s hall, and her dreams would be realized.
Isabeau swung round to capture Maddie’s green gaze—a little trick she’d learned over the years to draw secrets from her lips. “What has Nicola done?”
Maddie’s face closed, transforming her round features into a stern mask. “Nothing fit to be passed between your young ears. Lean forward. ‘Tis time to soap your hair.”
Rot! The element of surprise usually worked. Why was Maddie being so close-mouthed? Isabeau shrugged. “Very well, if you think there’s no lesson to be learned from her mistake.”
“There be a lesson all right.” Maddie began scrubbing Isabeau’s hair with furious intent. “Never lie with a man until ye be wed. Keep your virtue intact until the blessed day you hear his vow of protection.”
Isabeau gasped, as much from the abuse of Maddie’s attack on her scalp as from her grave news. “Surely you’re mistaken. Who told you this?” Hot anger flashed through her at the villain who would blacken her sister’s reputation. How dare any man utter such a vile falsehood! “Tell me! I would speak with him at once.”
“The body doesn’t lie.” Maddie rose to her feet, shaking her head. “‘Twas two months ago Nicola had her last flux.”
Isabeau’s jaw flapped. “Nicola is with child?” She could not have been more amazed if she’d looked down to discover she’d grown breasts—something she’d prayed for in the chapel every day for a year. Her sister, whom she had always looked to for guidance was to bear a child out of wedlock. How could this be? Nicola was a model of virtue. She would never dishonor their family thus.
“I did my best to hold my tongue until I was certain.”
“You betrayed her?” Isabeau stood up in the tub, splattering water across the flags. She could not believe her ears. How could Maddie, who had protected them since they were children, feed Nicola to the dogs, or in this case, their uncle? She wanted to shake her—throw a thousand oaths at her head!
“Nay!” Maddie’s face blanched. “I only spoke with her to offer my guidance—urge her to give the villain up, so that he might do right by her. Think you I’d wish her to spend the rest of her life in a convent?” She cast her eyes heavenward. “Forgive me Lord, but Nicola is too comely for that.” Her pious tone changed just as quickly to wrath. ‘Twas Ardith, that sharp-tongued, conniving bitch, always skulking about with her ear to the door! By the time Nicola reached the hall, she had goaded the Earl to a fine pitch.”
Ardith. Isabeau sank
back down in the tub. She might have known. For a serf Ardith had bold ways about her, especially in the presence of their cousin, Barak. Why, Isabeau had spied them only yesterday, kissing outside the alehouse, their bodies slithering against each other like eels. She shivered in remembrance. No wonder Nicola had warned her never to be caught alone with Barak.
Maddie dumped the bucket of water over her head, rinsing the image from her mind. “But, why was Nicola sent home?” She sputtered, pushing a wet lock of blonde hair from her face. “Who is this man? Will he not wed her?”
“Alexander Fortin be his name, one of the knights readying to depart on the crusade.” Maggie’s mouth twisted in disgust. “Aye, he’s a proud one, I’ll give you that. He denies any part of it, says he never touched her. Ha! If not him then who, jumping from pallet to pallet as though answering a wager. Did he think the Earl would accuse him without having Nicola examined first, the witless turd!”
Isabeau couldn’t quite comprehend what she was hearing. Nicola was to be taken from them in shame. Why would this man deny his child? It didn’t make any sense. Her sister was most fair, with a mild temper and a ready smile—all that a man could hope for in a wife. But instead, she was to be shut up in a convent for the rest of her days.
Isabeau attempted to conjure up an image of Fortin, but failed. Men came and went in her uncle’s hall like bees in a hive. She was never allowed to associate with them, nor would she wish to. They were a crude lot—not the sort of men to be found in her parent’s hall where peace and harmony reigned. “What will happen to him?”
“Castration,” Maggie said with undisguised satisfaction. “’Tis what he deserves.”
Yea. Maddie was right. The ruttish knave should forfeit his manhood for vanquishing her sister’s honor. She’d geld him herself if someone but handed her the knife.
***
Alec blinked against the sweat trickling down his brow. The sharp blade, moved closer and closer through the gloom toward his softer parts. Every muscle in his body tensed. The salty taste of blood from the gash on his lip only served to increase his rage. When the Earl of Agnew said he would castrate him, he thought it a mere threat. He never dreamed the bastard would go through with it.
Sweet Jesu! He didn’t even know the maid, other than to see her at the high table every eventide. She was a comely wench, he’d give her that, with flaxen hair and generous curves, unlike her younger, scrawny sister, who stumbled around like an ungainly sprite. And why should he risk bedding Agnew’s niece with so many other eager wenches to choose from? Why would she accuse him? What had he ever done to her? The venomous lying harlot!
His father always jested, ‘If there’s any trouble, make sure you’re right in the middle of it.’ Well, he was in the middle of it alright. But somehow he didn’t think losing his manhood at the age of twenty-one would make his family proud.
Winning the wager between him and his two brothers of who could bed the most wenches and gain the most riches in a year seemed foolhardy now. In fact, all the scrapping and wagering, and competitions their sire deemed necessary for manhood paled when compared to losing his bullocks.
But he was a Fortin.
He wouldn’t go down without a fight.
He swallowed past the lump in his throat to shout, “There’s no place where I won’t find you!” Followed by another string of oaths—words he had shouted over and over again as the two men-at-arms, Ram and Talbot, wrestled him onto the wooden table in the guardhouse to chain him down—words he continued to curse as they ripped down his braies.
The chains bit into his flesh where he strained against them. While the blade drew nearer, he concentrated on remembering every sharp, irregular feature of their faces. By the blood of God, before he died they would feel the sharp edge of his sword pierce their merciless hearts. The children he might have sired would have justice.
“Halt!”
The blade ceased its descent.
The Earl’s scarred face swam above Alec like a craggy apparition below a receding thatch of chestnut hair. What now? Had Agnew come to watch, as he had last eventide when they robbed him and nearly beat him senseless, before dropping him in the dirt on the guardhouse floor? Mayhap, Agnew wished to do it himself.
Alec squinted through swollen eyes to focus on Agnew’s face, in hopes of gleaning his motives. But the black throngs of rage would not let him think.
Then, as if through a dream, his liege lord, Richard Beaufort, stood over him, his face dark, hazel eyes alit with green fire. His short-cropped, golden hair rose from his head, as though he had been raking his fingers through it for hours. And no doubt he had, as they were fast friends as well as fellow combatants, a mere five winters separating them in age. “Release him at once!” He commanded. “You have the wrong man.”
If not for the chains, Alec would have kissed his noble face.
“How did this happen?” Beaufort demanded.
“’Twas an honest mistake,” Lord Agnew said in gruff tones, addressing himself to Lord Beaufort, as though Alec were some lackey who ceased to exist, instead of the son of one of the most powerful Earls in Cornwall. “How could I know she was lying? Fortin’s bedded every wench in the castle in the short month he’s been here. ‘Twas not until Lord Guilford returned and confessed that I knew aught was amiss.” Agnew shrugged. “No harm done. He’s fit to ride.”
Released from his chains, Alec’s temper burst with the force of a charging boar. “No harm done!” He gritted past his parched, raw throat. “You beat me and rob me and have the spleen to say I’m not wronged.”
Agnew’s eyes widened as if with surprise. “Robbery? I know naught of that.”
“I wonder what the King would make of your justice!” The blood boiled in Alec’s veins. He would have knocked Agnew’s brains out if not for the two men-at-arms who rushed forward to grab him. His honor tarnished, and the spoils of two years fighting—gone, in the blink of an eye.
“You forget yourself, Monsieur.” Lord Agnew’s voice rang cold and hard, lacking any remorse. “I’m Earl of these lands. King Stephen leaves all matters of local justice to his barons. Even if he had time, he wouldn’t interfere.” Agnew turned on his heel to stalk from the dank shadows of the guardhouse without so much as a backward glance.
The men-at-arms released Alec, then followed at an ambling gait.
Alec’s gaze burned into their retreating backs. How he itched to knock their greasy, black heads together until they cracked. “Dog-hearted knaves!” he said with a snarl. “I’ll wipe the smile from their faces when next we meet.”
“Agnew’s favorite wolfhounds.” Beaufort slashed him a wry smile. “Twins I believe.”
“But not identical, I think, for one is uglier and duller than the next.”
Beaufort gave a dark chuckle. “Don’t underestimate them. They’d slit your throat without provocation.”
Alec snatched up his braies, his mouth twisting in a grim smile. “Or cut off your balls.”
“Yea, ‘twas a fortunate twist of fate Lord Guilford arrived when he did to take responsibility and marry the maid.” Beaufort shook his head, casting forth his frustration in harsh tones. “Agnew’s an arrogant ass. He wouldn’t rescind his judgment, despite my pleas on your behalf.”
“Fortunate for me, but not for him,” Alec ground out. “I’ll not forget this insult.”
“’Tis better you do, for now. Agnew’s a powerful man. Save your spleen for the crusade. Now that Matilda’s given up her bid for the throne and retired to the continent, King Stephen is intent on protecting his interests in Normandy. As our most powerful neighbor, France has always been the greatest threat. Keeping an eye on King Louis and his wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine, will be no easy task. But there’s much wealth to be had, if we’re successful in gaining the information the King craves.”
“Yea, revenge can wait,” Alec agreed. His family and his country came first. “‘Twill give Agnew time to forget.” Alec followed Beaufort into the pink light of the awa
kening courtyard, his ordeal reverberating like an earth tremor, making his teeth ache. ‘Twas well they were riding from this place. With every bruise on his body screaming justice, he’d likely do something rash if forced to swallow Agnew’s hospitality one more day.
He dared not risk it. Success on the crusade meant everything, not simply wealth, or a chance to spread his wings away from the smothering censure of his family, but proof once and for all, that he was every bit as able as his brothers.
Beaufort was right. ‘Twas better to wait—savor his revenge. There would be many long hours in the saddle in the months ahead to form the perfect plan. And when he returned, he would have the means to execute it.
Better still, Agnew would not see it coming.
Six Years Later
Chapter One
Mercury snorted great puffs of steam, pawing at the earth, spattering wet leaves behind him. Like his master, the black destrier was impatient for battle. And there would be a battle, Alec was certain of it. The party they planned to intercept carried a hefty coffer—the dowry of Lord Agnew’s niece.
After six long years of waiting, he would finally have justice—the silver taken from him returned, and more importantly, his honor restored.
When they emerged from the long narrow stretch of road through yon forest, more than the sun would blind the eyes of Agnew’s men. The glint of Alec’s sword and a score of his men would be there to greet them in the clearing. What he wouldn’t give to see Agnew’s face when he discovered his precious cargo missing.
The coo of a dove carried through the tunnel of trees.
A crow cawed in answer.
“‘Tis the signal, my lord.” Alec’s squire, Will, edged his mount closer, hazel eyes glittering. Sweat beaded on his brow, dampening the nut-brown curls that clung to his forehead. “What if they won’t give it up?”
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