by Tamara Leigh
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was midday before Graeye summoned the courage to leave the chapel. With her veil and wimple in place, she set her chin high and stepped out into the gloom of a day draped with heavy clouds.
Many of the castle folk who had resumed the labors to which she had set them weeks ago, paused to look upon her. Doubtless, they speculated over their new baron’s interest in her—something he had made abundantly clear when he had followed her into the chapel. Though she told herself she did not care what any thought of her, she knew it was a lie.
But at least now she had a plan—or the beginnings thereof, she reassured herself as she put one foot in front of the other. Having used her time of prayer to seek guidance, the idea had slowly unfolded. It was not necessarily a good one, but no others had presented themselves.
Resolutely, she crossed to the watchtower where she hoped to find Sir Abelaard. If anyone knew where her father was, it would be the king’s man whose responsibility it was to make certain Edward caused no further trouble.
So many new faces, she noted of those she passed. Balmaine had brought a great number of men with him, likely having anticipated resistance. It must have amused him to simply ride in and have the castle handed over without a scrap of opposition, the king’s men having made the road smooth for him.
To her relief, Graeye found Sir Abelaard just inside the watchtower where he spoke with a knight who wore the colors of Balmaine.
“Lady Graeye.” He disengaged himself from the other man and strode toward her. “You seek your father?”
“I do. He is above?”
“Nay, he has been taken to the hall.”
Graeye had not thought Balmaine would so soon turn his attention to Edward. With greater foreboding, she asked, “Do you know what is to become of my sire?”
The knight’s brow furrowed as he considered her silent appeal for reassurance, then he looked back at Balmaine’s man.
The other knight strode forward. “Lady Graeye, I am Sir Lancelyn.” He reached to take her hand.
Graeye stepped back and laced her fingers at her waist.
Her snub raised an eyebrow. “The baron is a fair man, my lady,” he said. “I am certain he will deal justly with your father.”
“My father has done no wrong.”
He shrugged. “’Tis up to the baron to determine that.”
Graeye swung away.
“My lady,” Sir Lancelyn said, following, “if the hall is your destination, I am fair certain you will not be received within until Baron Balmaine has concluded his business.”
She turned to him again, but he was so near she had to jump back to better see him. “When will that be?”
“I fear I cannot say, though I expect many hours yet.”
She inclined her head, exited the watchtower, and was relieved when he did not follow.
Upon reaching the inner bailey, Graeye saw that several men-at-arms stood in the open doorway of the donjon with their backs to her. So engrossed were they with the goings-on in the hall that none noticed her ascent of the steps.
As she neared, Balmaine’s deep voice sounded from within. She faltered, pushed aside the voice that urged her to retreat, and slipped unseen past the men into the great room that had been set fully to light with torches.
Beyond the wall of people that obscured her view, the new baron of Medland stopped speaking. After a long silence, his voice once more swelled around the hall. “Sir Edward Charwyck”—
Sir, not Baron…
—“will you be the first to give your oath of fealty?”
Graeye almost spilled bitter laughter, for her father would never make such a pledge. Knowing his response would not be good, she pushed her way through the gathering to the front.
At the raised dais at the far end of the hall, Edward stood silent before the man who had usurped his place.
What would happen when he refused the oath? She shifted her gaze to her father’s former retainers who waited to pledge themselves to their new lord. William Rotwyld, no longer her betrothed, numbered among them.
“I would sooner die,” Edward finally answered, “than pledge myself to my son’s murderer.”
Balmaine looked down upon him a long moment, then stepped from the dais and halted before him. “I have told you, old man—”
Edward swept up an arm and lunged. For a moment, Graeye thought it was a fist with which he intended to strike at the other man, but silver flashed from his hand.
Balmaine did not have time to evade the attack, for he had drawn too near, but he did have the presence of mind to sidestep. Thus, it was his shoulder that took the blade rather than his heart. With a roar, he threw Edward away from him, then tore the dagger free.
As his knights rushed to his aid, he drew his sword and strode to where the old baron lay sprawled upon his back. Setting a booted foot on Edward’s chest, he swept the point of his sword to his prey’s neck. “I now see from whom Philip learned his treachery,” he growled.
Graeye returned to herself with a gasp and ran forward, but hardly did she make it to the center of the hall than Balmaine swept his sword back to deliver a killing blow.
“Do not!” she cried, but the weapon had begun its descent. She stumbled, dropped to her knees, and buried her face in her skirts to block the sight of the rushes soaked through with her sire’s blood.
Her again! Gilbert silently cursed, then demanded, “What is she doing here?” When no answer was forthcoming, he strode toward the woman heaped upon the floor.
As he neared Lady Graeye, so focused on her he was only vaguely aware of the stirrings around him, he realized he was more angry now than when her treachery had first been revealed. If not for the pleading in that husky little voice, he would be done with the Charwycks forever—the father dead with just cause, the daughter returned to the abbey on the morrow to live out her miserable days.
But this woman had denied him the drawing of blood, causing him to pull up just as his sword neared its destination. Thus, the curses he silently hurled were not only against the Charwycks but himself.
He shoved his sword into its scabbard and, pressing a hand to his shoulder to stanch the blood, leaned down to take hold of Lady Graeye’s arm. But before he could clamp a hand around her, a mangy dog bounded forward and placed itself between Gilbert and the woman. Growling, its sparse coat standing on end, the animal thrust its great head forward.
Slowly straightening, Gilbert reached for the dagger at his waist.
The beast bared its fangs, growled louder.
A movement beyond drew Gilbert’s attention, and he saw one of his knights had removed his own dagger and drawn his arm back to hurl it. Gilbert caught his eye, shook his head, and said, “Lady Graeye, you will stand. Now.”
She lifted her face from her arms and stared up at him with vast silvery eyes that shook him to the core. It was unsettling that she could have such an effect upon him after what he had discovered about her true character. Indeed, it almost sickened him.
Holding his stare, she gripped the dog’s shoulder and raised herself.
Though her eyes were bright, Gilbert noted there were no tears upon her face. He wondered at that, for he had expected hysterics. What exactly was the relationship between father and daughter?
“You are satisfied?” she asked in a voice as tremulous as it was challenging. “Or am I to be next?”
“Satisfied?” He stepped aside and nodded to where Edward was supported between two of his knights. “I am not.”
Graeye startled. Though her father’s chin was upon his chest, he was alive without a spot of blood to attest otherwise. Why? How? She had seen—
It mattered not. Silently thanking the Lord for this answer to her prayer, she started toward Edward.
Balmaine pulled her back.
As gasps and murmurings went up around the hall, Groan barked and bunched in readiness to pounce upon the one whom he perceived as a threat to his mistress.
“Nay, Gr
oan!” she commanded and met the baron’s gaze. “You had best unhand me.”
Even under threat of attack by a dog that obviously wished to tear out his throat, he did not release her.
Noting the clench of Balmaine’s teeth and the deepening grooves that revealed he was in pain, she lowered her gaze to the shoulder of his tunic. It was torn and soaked through with blood where Edward had driven a blade into him, and when she looked to his hand upon her arm, she saw it was coated in crimson fingertips to wrist from where he had first held it to the wound. It was surely this—the blood staining her white habit—that so roused the others in the hall when he had taken hold of her.
Graeye glanced at her father. Though she longed to go to him, she said, “Come, Baron Balmaine, I will tend your injury.”
Surprise flickered in his eyes before indifference fell into place. “Methinks you should first call off your dog.” He jerked his chin toward Groan.
“Nay, he shall stay with me,” she said, having once more discovered the value of his loyalty.
Balmaine looked as if he might refuse her, but then he shrugged his uninjured shoulder. “Very well,” he said and released her.
Graeye turned from him and, with Groan following, made for the stairs.
“Take Charwyck to the watchtower and hold him there until I decide what will become of his miserable person,” Balmaine commanded.
Hands clenched, Graeye veered toward Sir Michael, braved the compassion of his stare, and asked him to send a servant with water, strips of clean cloth, needle and thread, and salve. Then she mounted the stairs ahead of the baron.
With the arrival of the king’s men, she had forgotten how badly in need of repair the steps were. However, Balmaine’s weight and that of the squire who followed reminded her of their poor state.
Her father’s chamber being the most adequate room abovestairs, she led the way to it. As she stepped inside, the thought struck her that Balmaine would not clear the doorway. She looked around to warn him, but he had already ducked beneath the lintel. Clearly, he was accustomed to his height.
She was grateful she had seen to the freshening of the rushes, the cleaning of the sparse furnishings, and the placement of oiled linen over the narrow window. Still, it was a dismal, dank room, the brazier having long ago radiated its last ember of comforting heat.
She pulled a three-legged stool to the center of the chamber and motioned for Balmaine to seat himself. As he did so, Groan drew near, securing a vantage from which to attack, if necessary.
Graeye turned to the squire who stood in the doorway surveying her with distrustful eyes. “I will need light,” she said. “Fetch some torches.”
The young man propped himself against the door jamb.
“Duncan,” Balmaine said, “do as the lady says.”
The squire cast Graeye a look of warning, straightened, and pivoted.
She turned back to Balmaine. Though unsettled by the prospect of seeing his torso bared, the tunic and undertunic would have to go. “You must needs remove these.” She touched the material.
“With your assistance,” he said.
Her unease must have shown, for amid the ashen color of his face, his mouth took a derisive turn.
After he had removed his belt with its sword and dagger and lowered them to the floor, Graeye moved only as close as was required to grasp the garments and draw them up over his chest.
Balmaine made no sound when the material pulled from the wound, but his stiffening evidenced discomfort.
As she carefully drew the tunic and undertunic off over his head, she noted the injuries carved into his flesh, from the bloody one recently dealt by her father to a jagged ridge that slashed across his breast to a wickedly curved scar upon his lower abdomen. And still there was the unseen scar that was surely responsible for his limp.
Lord, he has so many.
She took a step back. “Hold your hand to it,” she said, then shook out his garments and laid them on the rumpled bed.
When she came back around, his squire had reappeared. As the young man set about placing torches in wall sconces around the chamber, Graeye returned to the baron, bent over him, and examined the wound.
Though she had spent time in the infirmary at the abbey, she had rarely been responsible for caring for the sick and wounded unless another had first seen to the stitching, medicating, and bandaging. Still, she had watched the sisters perform the duties required to mend such injuries and was certain she could see to this one.
“Milady,” a young voice called.
She looked to the two serving girls in the doorway whose arms were laden with the items she had requested, eyes wide and round as they stared at the baron’s bared chest. Behind them stood Sir Michael.
“Come,” Graeye beckoned.
The girls entered with a provocative swing in their hips that made Graeye wonder how they were able to make their bodies flow so smoothly. Could she do that?
Immediately, she chastised herself. For what purpose would she wish to do so? To again seduce this man who thought her the vilest of beings?
“Baron Balmaine,” Michael said, “with your permission, I would have a word with Lady Graeye.”
Astonished that he should be so forthright with the man who was to become his lord, Graeye turned to catch Balmaine’s reaction.
Save for the narrowing of his lids, he gave nothing away. “Be quick about it,” he said.
Reluctantly, Graeye stepped out into the passageway. “You should not have done that,” she said low.
Michael took her elbow and led her from the doorway. “There is no need for you to tend him,” he whispered. “There are others capable of the task.”
Taken aback by his concern, she stared at him. Why did he seek her out after avoiding her for so long? Had he changed his mind about Edward?
“It was my father who did the deed,” she said, “and so it is I who shall mend it.”
He sighed. “Still you make yourself responsible for that old man. Is there naught you would not forgive him for? He tried to murder the baron, Graeye.”
“’Tis Philip’s death that—”
The appearance of the serving girls halted the words with which she had intended to defend her father’s madness, and she took a step back.
Once the girls disappeared down the stairs, Michael resumed their hushed conversation. “Graeye, your father will likely be sentenced to death. Come with me this night, and you will not have to witness his end.”
Death? Not if her plan went well. “I have told you,” she said, “I will not abandon him to the likes of Baron Balmaine.”
Face reflecting frustration, Michael stepped near and cupped her chin in his palm. “You are being foolish, sweet Graeye.”
Perhaps, but she would not give up so easily. “I—”
“Are you finished?” Balmaine asked.
Graeye spun around.
He leaned in the doorway, a forearm against the frame. Though his eyebrows were raised and a smile curved his mouth, he looked ominous.
How much had he heard? Angry at herself for allowing Michael to pull her into a conversation with the baron so near, she said, “We are finished,” and stepped toward the chamber.
Balmaine remained unmoving, his great bulk denying her access while his gaze probed Michael’s face, then hers.
“If you will step aside,” Graeye said between her teeth, “I will tend your wound now.”
His eyes that seemed more black than blue at the moment, returned to Michael. “Await me belowstairs,” he told the knight, then stood aside to grant Graeye entrance into the chamber.
She checked the items the serving girls had laid out on a table beside the stool, then cleaned her hands in the wash basin, all the while aware of the eyes boring into her back. The tension grew worse when Balmaine resumed his seat upon the stool and his outer thigh settled against her leg.
Though she longed to step back, she determined he would not know the effect he had upon her and dipped a
strip of cloth in water. She wrung it out and wound it about her hand.
“Duncan,” Balmaine said, “leave us.”
“But, my lord—”
“Leave us!”
“I suppose I should be heartened to know I am not the only one you treat so rudely,” Graeye observed once the squire had gone. Still, she was sure the young man lingered not far down the corridor, prepared to defend his lord should she make an attempt upon his life. As if she posed a threat to a man such as he…
Withholding her gaze from him though she certainly felt his, she moved his hand aside and set to cleaning the wound. It was seeping now, the flow having been suspended by the pressure he had applied. Careful lest she start it welling again, she lightly wiped the cloth over it.
And still he stared at her, and still she refused to meet his gaze.
Once the wound was cleaned, she retrieved the needle and thread and turned back into the light. “I have not done this before,” she murmured as she attempted to thread the elusive eye.
“What?” Balmaine barked.
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “I have seen it done. ’Tis simply sewing, and I am proficient at that.”
His jaw convulsed, but he said no more.
“What is to become of my father, Baron Balmaine?” she asked, touching the thread to her tongue before making a second attempt to force it into the small eye.
“You ask that before laying a stitch to me?” he demanded.
Her second attempt failed, and she sighed. “I assure you, your answer will have no bearing on my handiwork. ’Tis what you imply, is it not?”
“What is your relationship with your father?”
She met his gaze. “He is my father.”
“’Tis not what I asked.”
Beside her, Groan growled.
“Nevertheless,” Graeye said, “’tis the only answer you will have from me. There!” She held the needle up for him to see the thread that dangled from it.
Balmaine groaned.
“So what is to be my father’s fate?” she persisted as she bent over his shoulder.
“Stitch first,” he said, “then we shall talk.”
