by Tamara Leigh
Had it slipped free of the mews? Graeye wondered as she rushed to close the door so it would not escape into the rest of the castle.
It took patience and effort, but between her and Groan chasing it about, the falcon finally found the small window and its freedom. Gripping the sill, Graeye watched the bird arc and dip in the broad expanse of sky.
How would it feel to have wings? she wondered. To fly free and—
She chastised herself for such yearnings. There was nothing she had wanted more than to come home to Medland and assume her place as lady of the castle. In spite of the obstacles encountered these past weeks, and that she must wed a man she loathed, she had never known greater fulfillment.
With the abbey forever behind her, her future was assured. That, no one could take from her.
CHAPTER THREE
An air of import surrounded King Henry’s knight as he strode into the hall five days later, his armed retinue following and positioning themselves around the room. Clothed in chain mail, none wore smiles nor a congenial air that might mistake them for visitors passing through.
Realizing something serious was afoot, Edward ordered all, except his steward and William, from the hall in order to receive the king’s missive in private.
Graeye did not have long to learn the effect of the news delivered to her father, for his explosion was heard throughout the donjon. She ran into the hall and stumbled at the sight of two knights struggling to hold her red-faced, bellowing sire from the messenger.
Fear thrumming through her, she searched out William where he stood beside the steward. His expression reflected the other man’s—shock, disbelief, outrage.
She veered in the direction of the messenger. “What has happened, Sir Knight?” she asked, halting before him.
He swept his gaze down her faded bliaut, then back up and settled it on her face framed by its concealing wimple. “Who are you?”
She dipped a curtsy. “Lady Graeye.”
His eyes narrowed. “Sir Royce Saliere, here by order of the king. You are a relation?”
She glanced at her father. “I am the baron’s daughter.”
Surprise transformed his dour face, but he soon recovered. “No longer baron,” he said with what seemed a token shrug of regret. “By King Henry’s decree, all Charwyck lands are declared forfeit and returned to the sovereignty of the crown.”
Edward roared louder, raising his voice against God as he struggled to free himself.
Feeling as if the air had been sucked out of her world, Graeye shook her head. It could not be. The king would not take from the Charwycks that which had been awarded the family nearly a century past. This had to be some trickery by which another sought to steal her father’s lands now that he was without an heir.
“Methinks you lie,” she said.
Sir Royce raised his eyebrows. “Lie?”
“King Henry would do no such a thing. My father is a loyal subject. He—”
“Can you read?” His tone was patronizing.
“Of course.” She took the document he thrust at her, and her gaze fell upon the broken wax seal. Though she had never seen the royal signet, she did not doubt this was, indeed, from the king. With dread, she unrolled the parchment and read the first lines. And could go no further.
“Why?” she croaked, reaching for something to brace herself against but finding only air. If the Charwyck lands were lost, what was to become of her father, an old man no longer capable of lifting a sword to earn his living? And what of her? She would not be needed to produce a male heir—of no value since William would not wed her without benefit of the immense dowry she would have brought to their union.
“For offenses committed by your brother, Philip Charwyck,” Sir Royce said as he pried the document from her fingers.
Graeye swayed, glanced at her father who had quieted. “I do not understand. Of what offenses do you speak?”
“Murder, pillaging…”
Recalling her brother’s disposition, the accusations should not have surprised her. Still, she said, “Surely you are mistaken,” desperation raising her voice unnaturally high. “’Twas my brother who was murdered. Why do you not seek out the perpetrator of that crime?”
The man raised his eyes heavenward as if beseeching guidance from above. “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 a hand. “I can tell no more.”
“You would take all that belongs to the Charwycks and refuse to say what, exactly, my brother is accused of having done?”
He folded his arms over his chest. “Your fate rests with Baron Balmaine of Penforke. As ’tis his family the crime was committed against, King Henry has given this demesne into his keeping.”
Graeye barely had time to register this last shocking news before her father renewed his struggles. “Curse the Balmaines!” he shouted. “I will gut that miscreant and his sister!”
Sir Royce signaled for his men to remove the old baron.
Graeye rushed forward. “Nay!” she cried, following the knights as they half dragged, half carried Edward across the hall. However, her efforts to halt their progress were to no avail, for they thrust her aside each time she stepped into their path. Neither William, nor the steward, were of any help. Like great pillars of earth, they remained unmoving.
She hurried back to Sir Royce and gripped his arm. “My father has committed no offense. Why are they taking him away?”
“He must needs be held whilst he is a danger to others,” he said and looked pointedly at her hand upon his sleeve.
She dropped it to her side. “He has been dealt a great blow,” she entreated. “Not only has the king taken everything he owns, but he has given it to his enemy.”
The man considered her, then ran a weary hand through his cropped, silvery hair. “Lady Graeye, 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.”
Simply… There was nothing simple about it, certainly not where the Charwycks were concerned.
Wishing she had the luxury of sinking to the floor as she longed to do, Graeye said, “The baron will arrive soon?”
“A sennight.” Sir Royce turned and strode to where his knights were gathered near the doors.
So many questions swirled through Graeye’s mind that she thought she might go mad in the absence of answers, but she knew the man would give her no more.
She turned to William and the steward. “All is lost,” she said, and at their continued silence, withdrew from the hall.
Without a mantle to protect her against the lingering chill of morning, she set out to discover her father’s whereabouts. Not only was she aware of the precipice upon which the old baron’s mind balanced and worried for him, but she needed to know whether she would be allowed to remain at his side to care for him, or if he intended to return her to the abbey.
It was no great undertaking to discover his whereabouts. With expressions of concern, the castle folk pointed Graeye to the watchtower.
Along the way, she became increasingly uneasy over the great number of the king’s men positioned around the walls. They were alert, ready to stamp out any signs of uprising. That unlikely possibility gave rise to a bitter smile. Not only had the ranks of Edward’s retainers been depleted from Philip’s foray to the north, where he had given up his life for a cause yet unclear to her, but few would be willing to challenge the king’s men for their lord. They disliked him that much.
At the watchtower, a surly knight halted Graeye’s progress. “You would do well to return to the donjon, my lady. No one is allowed to see the prisoner.”
“I am his daughter, Lady Graeye. I would look to his needs.”
He shook his head. “My orders are clear. No one is allowed within.”
“I beseech you, let me see him for a short time only. No harm will be done.”
She thought his eyes softened, but he said, “Nay.”
Without considering the consequences, she snatched up her skirts, ducked beneath his arm, and managed to make it up the flight of steps before encountering the next barrier. With a small sob, she halted at the sight of the two who guarded the room where her father was surely imprisoned. Undoubtedly, they had heard her advance, for their swords were trained upon her.
Though the knight behind did not need to seize hold of Graeye, as she could go no farther, he turned a hand around her arm. “You—”
“Just a moment,” she choked, peering up at him through tears. “’Tis all I ask.”
The angry color that had brightened his face began to recede and, to her surprise, he sighed and said, “A moment only,” then released her and motioned the guards aside.
After a brief hesitation, during which Graeye feared he reconsidered the wisdom of allowing her to see her father, the knight threw back the bolt and opened the door.
With a murmur of gratitude, she entered the cold room. Though she had expected to be granted a private audience with her father, the knight’s great bulk shadowed the floor where he positioned himself in the doorway.
Graeye crossed to where Edward huddled in a corner with his forehead resting on arms propped upon his knees. As she sank down beside him, her heart swelled with compassion for the pitiful heap he made. True, he had often been unkind, had never loved her, had not inquired as to her welfare at the abbey, but he was her father. And now he had lost everything—his son, the grandson who would have been his heir, his home, his dignity. Everything gone. Would what remained of his mind go, too?
Though she longed to embrace him, she first tested a hand upon his shoulder. “Father?”
He did not move.
She scooted nearer and tentatively slid an arm around him. “’Tis I, Graeye.”
Slowly, he lifted his head. For a long, breath-holding moment, he stared at her, then he jerked free and so forcefully landed a hand to her chest that she toppled backward. “’Twas you who brought this upon me!” He lurched upright. “You, spawn of the devil!”
Dragging in air that had been lost to her, Graeye peered up at him.
“I should have left you to the Church!” He pointed a shaking finger at her. “For this offense, I am to be punished to everlasting hell.”
Graeye glanced at the knight who had not moved from the doorway, though he was tense as if he struggled against coming to her defense. Fearing his interference would portend ill for Edward, she quickly gained her feet.
“Father,” she said softly, “I have come to see to your needs. Pray, let me—”
“My needs?” Edward thrust his face near hers. “What else have you come for?”
She held his stare. “I would know what is to become of me.”
His laughter was cruel. “What do you think your fate should be, Daughter of Eve?”
“I would stay with you.”
“Ha! Of what use are you now that all I possess has been stolen?”
“I shall care for you. You will require—”
He seized hold of her. “The last thing I require is the devil on my shoulder.”
“’Tis not true—”
“Did you know that twice your mother bore me sons? Sickly things that lived no more than a few days? And then she bore you, a healthy girl child with the devil’s mark full upon her face. And afterward…no more.”
Graeye had not known. Never had her mother spoken of those children who had come before. It explained much of her father’s feelings for her.
“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 of him. “I do not wish to return.”
“Do you think I care what you wish?” he snarled. “Many a daughter would vie for the soft life of a nun, but the devil in you resists. Thus, as my final offering to God, you will return.”
“You need me!” It was true. What would become of an old man alone in a world so changed from what he had known? And what of her? Though determined she would not spend her life at the abbey, she could not do so outside of it without a man to protect her.
“I need you?” Edward crowed. “’Twas your body I needed. Blood of my blood. A vessel for the heir you would make with William. Now”—he snorted—“you shall either return to the abbey or go back to the devil whence you came. That is the only choice I grant you.”
The air of hate upon which his words were delivered stank, and Graeye began to back away.
“And do not let me see you again without your nun’s clothing!”
She was surprised when she came up against the knight in the doorway. Without a word, he drew her outside and closed the door on Edward. Almost immediately, a clamor arose as the old man threw himself against the door, pounded and kicked, cursed and spat.
“My lady,” the knight spoke to her bowed head, “you ought to return to the donjon.” At her nod, he gently guided her forward.
If not for his support, she thought she might not have made it down the steep stairway, so blurred was her vision. When they reached the bottom, he showed her further kindness. Rather than send her on her way, he led her past the curious stares of the soldiers and castle folk and did not relinquish his grip until they stood within the hall.
She tried to smile, but she knew it was a sickly attempt. “My thanks, Sir…?”
“Abelaard.” He gave a curt bow.
“If you will wait”—she stepped away—“I will gather blankets that you might deliver them to my father.”
A thick silence descended, and she turned back. Too late, she realized it was beneath the man’s rank to perform such a duty.
“My apologies,” she said. “I shall send a servant.”
Looking relieved that he did not have to refuse her, he offered an uneven smile. “My sister is a nun. ’Tis not a bad life she has.”
Graeye stared at him as he grew visibly discomfited with the effects of his poorly timed, though well-meaning disclosure. “I fear you do not understand, Sir Knight,” she said and turned away.
Desperate to escape the curious regard of the castle folk and the king’s men, she climbed the stairs. Shortly, she entered the small chapel whose only other occupant was the dark, lingering presence of Philip Charwyck whose actions, whatever they were, had brought this day crashing down around her father and her.
Kneeling before the altar, she clasped her hands and tried to offer up prayer. But now that her hopes were dashed by the coming of the treacherous Baron Balmaine, there seemed no place for such devotions. With a great, soulful sob, she cried as she had never cried—and vowed she would never cry again.
CHAPTER FOUR
With all the extra mouths to feed and bodies to bed in a hall that suddenly seemed inadequate, Graeye had little time throughout the day to dwell on the misfortune that had befallen her father—and the fate that awaited her.
Now, however, as night deepened and sleep refused to soothe her churning thoughts, she kept the confrontation with Edward as far out of reach as possible by fixing instead on the events that had preceded and followed that heart-rending exchange.
She recalled Sir Royce’s veiled revelations, Sir Abelaard’s kind and well-intentioned words, the 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 hateful words.
Without thought, and in front of the servants, she had struck him across the face with all her strength. Fortunately, he had been too surprised to retaliate, allowing her to flee the hall and seek safety 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
eyes of William and Sir Michael. Afterward, the young knight had twice attempted to corner her, but she had evaded him, certain no good could come of allowing him near.
The most difficult day of her life had been made all the worse by the amount of pity heaped upon her. It shone from the eyes of the castle folk, as well as several of Edward’s knights. Even the king’s men cast it upon her. But it was not what she needed, and she had determined she would waste no more time on the useless emotion, not when a plan that would make it possible for her to remain at her father’s side would serve far better. Somehow, she must find a way.
Turning on her bench to get more comfortable, she winced at the rumble that drifted up from beneath her.
Throughout the day, Groan had become increasingly testy at the changes wrought in his home. There were too many people, too much commotion, and the air of gloom that hung over all was as unsettling as the morsels the dog had been denied due to the shortage of viands. Nevertheless, he had not strayed far from her side—except the one time William had caught her alone.
Groan rumbled again.
Graeye leaned over the side of the bench and searched out the dog’s glowing eyes. “Shh,” she breathed and reached to him.
“Lady Graeye,” a man whispered.
Stifling a yelp that might have awakened those in the hall, Graeye pressed herself back on the bench and peered up at the still figure that stood a foot away.
Was it William come to seek revenge for her striking him earlier? If so, she would gladly awaken all to avoid whatever the wicked man had in mind.
“Who goes?” she whispered.
Groan rumbled deeper.
Ignoring the dog’s threat, the figure stepped forward and bent near. “’Tis I, Sir Michael.”
Though relieved, Graeye was still alarmed that he sought her out in the middle of the night. “What is it you want?”
“I must needs speak with you.”
“We can speak on the morrow.”
“Nay, we must speak now.”
“Shh,” she hissed. “Lower your voice, else you will awaken the others.”
