Love Never Lies

by Rachel Donnelly

  The dowry would replace the coin Agnew had taken, and the ransom would compensate him for the cost of the siege against Highburn, lands that were rightly his, but nothing could make up for the personal insult he had suffered that day.

  Alec sucked in a deep breath, attempting to clear his head. He strode to the stand of pines where Mercury stood tethered, to see him settled for the night. It had been a long hard day in the saddle—one, they must repeat on the morrow. The sooner he turned in, the better.

  After rubbing Mercury down and fixing him with a bag of grain, he went to the fire to ease his hunger.

  A few moments later enjoying his repast, he glanced over his shoulder and nearly choked on his meat.

  He couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Will stood at the end of the wagon drawing a comb through his captive’s hair.

  Alec sprang to his feet with a low growl.

  If the rest of his men caught sight of Will playing lady’s maid, he’d be the laughing stock of the garrison. They’d taunt him until his ears chafed. As if the lad didn’t have enough to contend with, struggling to master the skills of knighthood.

  Will must have spied him coming. By the time Alec reached them, the comb had disappeared from Will’s hand.

  “Go and see to the palfrey.”

  Will hastened to obey with a hop to his step, almost tripping him to the ground.

  Alec glared at William’s retreating back, then turned to the one who pricked his ire most. “’Tis difficult I’m sure for a pampered maid such as you to lift a finger for herself, but that does not excuse shaming my squire before of the rest of my men.”

  The Lady Isabeau jutted her chin forward in haughty defiance. Her blue-gray eyes turned to flint. “’Twas not my intent. My hair is long and doest tangle. I have trouble reaching the back ‘tis all. If I’ve caused Will any shame, I’ll beg his pardon.” She made to turn away.

  Alec put a hand on her arm to stay her. “Then you must beg my pardon as well, for he is my squire, and anything he does reflects on me.”

  Her flinty gaze strayed to his hand, then returned to his face. “Nay. ‘Tis the other way round I think. But the night is young. ‘Tis likely there’ll be something I need beg your pardon for yet.” She gave a light shrug. “Even so, I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  The challenge in her words coupled with her scathing glance, stirred his blood to flames. Mayhap now would be a good time to bring her to heel. He slid one knuckle under her chin. “A comely face. A pity it houses such a waspish tongue. ’Twould be wise if you saved your strength for when we reach Gilling’s Cross. Harvest time is upon us. There’s much work to be done.”

  She jerked her head away. “You say you’re not punishing me, yet you threaten me at every turn.” Her voice grew soft, but a determined edge clung to her words. “I’m sorry you’re bitter, but I can’t change what happened to you anymore than I can change my uncle. I wish my parents had never sent us to Marsborough Hall. But that’s the custom, is it not, to send your children away to be raised, even if it be by harsher hands.”

  The trembling tone of her voice and bold courage in her gaze made Alec’s heart squeeze. But she was his prisoner, not a friend to console. And he needed to demonstrate who was master if he were to keep it so. “If you seek to inspire my pity, you’re wasting your breath.”

  “Nay, Monsieur.” Her lips thinned to a tight smile. “Everyone knows you can’t squeeze blood from a stone. I only wish to make you aware of the fact, that I’m well versed in hardship. So you’re wasting your time making up punishments for me.”

  “Is that so, little liar? We shall see.”

  ***

  Fortin’s words rang in Isabeau’s head the next morn as she stood by the small wattle and daub cottage, watching him ride away. Her heart tapped hard against her breast. When he said there was much work to be done, she assumed he meant in his hall. Never had she dreamed he would leave her in the care of serfs at such a meager dwelling as this.

  She knew the workings of a household and after years of tutoring could manage one well, but she knew little of serfdom. The skills Aunt Winifred taught her would do no good here. Of what use could she be?

  ‘Twas all she could do not to call Fortin back. Her throat ached with the want of it, but pride held her mute.

  Instead, she clinched her fists, staring daggers at his retreating back. If he thought to punish her by leaving her, unguarded, with a young widow and her babe, who was she to complain. He could choke on his bitterness for all she cared!

  Though ‘twould have been easier to be hated by an ugly man.

  She was not used to being hated.

  Or ignored, for that matter.

  A plague on his villainous hide!

  But, the fact that he could not abide the sight of her might work to her advantage. ‘Twould be far easier to escape from an isolated hut, than a crowded hall. In the meantime, she was strong and healthy and could work just as hard as the next person.

  Her heated gaze followed Fortin across the narrow field separating the cottage from the village, until his figure dwindled to an insignificant speck. Then, feeling much better her gaze returned to the cottage.

  ‘Twas a sturdy structure, with a tidy thatch roof and a neat garden in back. Hardly the sort of dwelling she was accustomed to, but she’d get by. Yea, she’d do very well, away from his scornful looks.

  Lara, the young widow, came forward out of the shadow of the doorway with her babe clasped against her russet-shrouded breast. She was a tiny bit of a thing, almost a child herself. ‘Twas difficult to imagine how she survived on her own. Her voice came gentle and low from the full pout of her lips, “You must have pricked his ire greatly for him to leave you here.”

  Her open manner and shy smile released much of the tension in Isabeau’s stance. She left her brooding and came forward to offer Lara a warm hand. “Twas my sister who brought his temper to a boiling,” she said ruefully. “I’m but a convenient means of revenge.”

  She hadn’t meant to sound so pathetic, but tired and dirty as she was, not to mention a little stinky, that was the best she could do.

  “I’m sorry for your trouble.” Lara’s dark eyes mirrored her regret. “Men are stubborn and unforgiving when they suffer an insult. I’ve felt the sting of many a tongue after refusing offers to wed. But I’m not ready to pledge myself to another so soon after my husband’s death.” She offered a wry smile. “They think they’re in love with me, but ‘tis only the smell of my bread.”

  “You’re a baker?”

  “Yea, I supply the bread for Gilling’s Cross.” Lara tilted her dark head with pride, bringing her delicate features into full relief under the brilliant light of the afternoon sun. “In return I’m given meat, and grain to make more bread.”

  “Why don’t they make their own bread? Is there no oven?”

  “Yea, a small one attached to the hall, but his lordship thinks his household overtaxed, or so he says. ‘Tis only a kindness on his part. They have plenty of time for gossip and merriment, as Lord Fortin is rarely in residence at Gilling’s Cross. But I’ll not complain. ‘Twas a blessing after my Hamish was felled by a tree. He was a wood cutter—good with his hands was my Hamish. I feared I’d have to sell myself to serfdom after the Lord called him back. I may still have to, if I can’t meet this month’s rent.”

  “You’re free?”

  “Yea, my family and Hamish’s have always been free. But I fear it won’t last if I don’t marry soon. Bread isn’t enough to compensate for my rent, and without my husband here to offer three days service…” She threw one hand in the air then let it fall. “I could bake bread from sunup ‘til sundown, if I could but sell it somewhere else.”

  Isabeau’s heart picked up speed, her mind working fast. “But if you’re free, you can leave whenever you wish? There must be another village close by where you could sell your bread.”

  “Yea, the village of Kirkford, but ‘tis many furlongs north. How would I get there?”<
br />
  How could they get there indeed? Isabeau chewed on her bottom lip. If she could reach Kirkford, she might find sanctuary there.

  Isabeau pondered the problem all day while she held little Hamish, listening to Lara instruct her in the mysteries of bread making. The charms Lara said to help the dough rise after they took turns kneading it, swirled around Isabeau, then disappeared like smoke. She could not remember the words. She was so preoccupied with escape.

  She was still pondering it that eventide as she chopped parsnips and onions on the scarred wooden table while Lara stirred the stew and wee Hamish slept in his cradle, a sprig of yellow yarrow to ward off evil spirits dangling above his head. “Do the villagers never travel to Kirkford to trade their goods?”

  “Yea, my lady, a few with oxen to pull their carts.” Lara slid her tongue across her lips, tasting the broth as she turned from the kettle suspended by a hook over the fire. “Alas, I’ve since had to sell mine to pay rent.”

  “Could you not borrow one in exchange for a few loaves of bread?” Isabeau kept her tone mild. She didn’t wish Lara to guess what she was about, lest she balk at her plan, or worse be held responsible when she fled.

  “Yea, mayhap I could.” Lara pondered this for a moment with a puckered brow. “But I fear there isn’t much time. I have Hamish to care for, and now that Lord Fortin and his men have returned to the hall they’ll need more bread. There be only a few short days to meet my rent.”

  Isabeau looked up from her chopping, careful to keep the eagerness from her voice. “You need not worry about Hamish. I can care for him, and when he sleeps I can help you.”

  Lara turned from the pot with a worrying frown. “’Tis not right that you should perform such crude tasks.” She shook her head with a look of dismay. “’Tis a strange punishment if you ask me, to leave a gently-born lady here, to live as I do.”

  “He hopes to break my spirit and bring me low.” Isabeau forced a brisk smile. “But he doesn’t know me. I’d much rather be here with you than abide his company.”

  “He’s a pleasure to look at though, is he not? Most maids think so.” Lara’s grin dared her to say no.

  “’Tis difficult to swoon over an enemy.” Remembering Fortin’s cold treatment turned Isabeau’s voice tart.

  “You’re wise to keep your head about you. Women are much hardier than men think.” Lara offered a knowing smile. “Everyone in the village thought me foolish not to scoop up the first man who came offering. But I’ve survived and will continue to do so. ‘Tis the only freedom I’ve ever known, and though it be hard, I’ll not marry until I find a right and worthy man.”

  “Do you know the lord of Kirkford? Is he such a man?”

  “’Tis said the old lord was kind and generous. But he died this past month without leaving an heir they say. Kirkford and its holdings have since changed hands.”

  Isabeau prayed with fervor the new lord might be just as kind, as she scooped the parsnips and onions into a wooden bowl to carry to the pot. If he had been to court, mayhap he knew her betrothed, Lord Hogan.

  If she could only get word to him, he might come and try to win her back.

  ***

  “You’re as happy as a trout, aren’t you my love?” Isabeau crooned, crouching beside the wooden tub outside Lara’s cottage, squeezing the wet rag over Hamish to rinse the lemon verbena soap from his chubby legs. “’Tis a lovely morn for a soak. But, the water grows cold. Time I fished you out.”

  Hamish squealed, pounding his fists in the water. Isabeau laughed, blinking at the water that splashed in her face. Caring for little Hamish was a welcome distraction, if not good practice for the babes she would have of her own one day. It made her all the more determined to escape.

  But right now, her hopes hinged on Lara returning with the oxen she meant to borrow.

  The steady pound of hooves intruded on Isabeau’s thoughts.

  Her smile faded when she looked up to spy Fortin galloping toward the cottage—coming to check up on her, no doubt. ‘Twas not likely he would have word of her ransom yet.

  Or, had he changed his mind and thought twice about leaving her in Lara’s care? Isabeau’s heart banged hard in her chest. ‘Twould devastate her plans if he ordered her to the hall now.

  She lifted Hamish from the tub to swaddle him in the towel laid out on the grass. He gurgled and cooed as she stood with him in her arms, slipping and sliding as though he had no corners, like a well-used cake of soap. She smiled down at him when he patted her cheeks with his dimpled hands, then dropped a kiss on his little forehead.

  Fortin pulled his stead to a halt in front of the cottage. The gentle morning breeze ruffled the black hair at the nape of his neck while his horse pawed the grass. His gaze traveled over the length of her.

  The vivid blue of his eyes struck Isabeau with force. ‘Twas not the color, but the coldness lurking behind those orbs that quickened her pulse. She quivered to be viewed with such asperity—to be hated by a stranger and know there was nothing she could do to change it. But she did not flinch or look away. She stared straight up at him, waiting for him to speak.

  His voice cut into her thoughts. “Where is the widow?”

  “She isn’t here.” Isabeau feigned a mild expression, though her knees trembled beneath her skirts so much she feared they might knock. “I expect she’ll return anon. Shall I give her a message?”

  “Nay. My man will speak to her when she comes to the hall.”

  That could only mean one thing—he would not be there to speak to Lara. Joy leapt in Isabeau’s breast. Circumstances could not have turned out better if she had planned them herself. “Very well, my lord.” She lowered her gaze and turned away, anxious to remove herself from his sight, ere he grew suspicious.

  His voice stopped her. “You’re settling into your new life very well.”

  The dissatisfaction in his tone spun her around. Or was it surprise? He wore a quizzical look. She sensed no malice there. Apparently, he thought she would crumble at the first sign of adversity.

  She looked up at him with what she hoped was an expression of unconcern. “Lara is very kind to me. I have no complaints.”

  “Good.” His tone grew soft, almost gentle. “Do what the widow bids you and I’ll have no reason to regret my leniency at leaving you in her care.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath.

  Leniency indeed!

  He’d left her in a hut with no clothes but the ones on her back. His arrogance set her teeth on edge. But with great effort, she managed to answer in a calm tone. “Your regrets will be many, but I don’t think this will be the worst of them.” She turned on her heel to head for the cottage, all too aware of his gaze boring into her back. But she dared not turn around, for fear he asked her where Lara had gone and somehow put an end to their leave-taking on the morrow.

  ***

  Kirkford’s village green bustled under the cloud ridden sky. ‘Twas market day and many peasants’ carts and stalls crowded the square in hopes of selling their wares. Barrels of ale, pottery, belts, purses, produce, all manner of goods were laid out for the town-folk’s inspection.

  Isabeau paced some distance away, under a sprawling yew with little Hamish cradled against her breast. Their journey from Gilling’s Cross had proved uneventful, but luck was a fickle thing and she was anxious to be on her way.

  She stroked her finger down Hamish’s rosy cheek. “You are the dearest man I know save my father. I’m sorry to leave you. But your mother comes hither from selling her bread, and I must go if I’m to find my betrothed.”

  Lara hastened toward them, beaming from ear to ear, the cord at her waist swinging in front of her brown kirtle like a church bell. “Tis all gone! Every single loaf! A true blessing it was the day you were dropped at my door, my lady. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  Isabeau brushed her lips against the babe’s velvet forehead, then handed him ever so gently over to his mother. “You may not think so for long,” she said with a
rueful smile. “I fear what I’m about to tell you may vex you sorely.”

  “You’re leaving.” Lara did not seem surprised. In fact, a note of pride crept into her voice. “You mean to flee. I knew ‘twas so!”

  “Yea. I’m sorry. I wish you no trouble. You’ve been so kind to me. But I must leave while I have the chance.”

  Lara nodded. “I’d do the same if I were in your place.”

  No doubt she would. Lara was of sturdy stock. Life would never get the better of her. “I’ll not forget your kindness. You’ve been a true friend.” Isabeau clasped her arms around Lara in a brief hug. “But, I must go.”

  “Can I not at least take you to the castle gate?”

  “Nay!” Isabeau gasped, then seeing the attention she was drawing lowered her voice. “You must not be seen with me.”

  “Never fear, I’ll make up a good lie.”

  “Nay!” Sweet Mary! A lie was what had gotten her into this mess. “Don’t do that. Just say that I took my leave, and you couldn’t stop me.”

  Lara reached out to squeeze her hand. “Good tidings, my lady. My prayers go with you.”

  “And you,” Isabeau called over her shoulder. “If you find a right and worthy man, send me his brother.” Once in motion, she did not look back, but hurried up the dirt road toward the fortress on the hill.

  Her hand roamed upward to the ruby amulet around her neck. The smooth cool feel of it under her thumb gave her courage. Having rubbed it for good luck, she dropped it back beneath her kirtle.

  From what she could see of it in the distance, Kirkford Castle appeared smaller than her uncle’s stronghold, but sizably larger than Gilling’s Cross, which according to Lara was not a castle at all, but rather a fortified manor like Isabeau’s parents’ home. Fortunately now, she would never have the pleasure of finding out.