Lady Of Eve

by Tamara Leigh

  Captivated, she reached up and touched it. His smile faltered, but then he slid an arm around her and pulled her against his side. She did not protest or resist, for no matter the temptation of being so near, the presence of his men would keep them in check.

  “It occurs to me,” he spoke into the hair atop her head, “that in spite of all, perhaps we were destined for one another, Graeye Charwyck.”

  “Destined?” She was surprised to hear such a word from him.

  “Perhaps it was your God who drew me to the waterfall—”

  She jerked her head up. “He is your God, too, Gilbert,” she said, though she knew it would be better to turn the conversation in a different direction.

  Something struggled across his face, and she sensed the bitterness in him wished to disavow it, but he inclined his head. “You are right. And I am still too angry with Him.”

  It had to be good that he could admit it—a place to begin.

  “Regardless,” he continued, “it could have been any of my men who ventured to the pool that night to clean away the sweat and grime. Indeed, I was happily surprised to find I was the only one to avail myself of it. And there you were.”

  She remembered. And the heat in her face became uncomfortably warm. “I cannot change what I did, Gilbert, but I would have you know it was not an easy thing to do, that I am aware it was wrong and selfish, and I would not have done it had I known who you were and considered that a babe might result—one who will ever be branded by my sin.”

  “Our sin,” he surprised her yet again. “I indulged my desires with as much—nay, more—disregard for the wrong of it and the consequences. And unlike you, I have not the excuse of inexperience and naiveté to explain away my behavior.”

  Graeye thought she might cry. “I thank you,” she whispered.

  He kissed her brow, then drew his arm from around her and reached to their barely touched viands. “Enough talk.” He broke off a piece of bread and handed it to her. “Now we eat.”

  An hour later, he lifted her into the saddle.

  “Will you bring me tomorrow?” she asked as he mounted behind her.

  He drew her back against him. “So soon?”

  “Or the day after.”

  He took up the reins. “I will bring you every day if it pleases you.”

  She smiled over her shoulder at him. “It would please me immensely.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  It was no simple task to enter the great fortress of Chesne, home to Ranulf and Lizanne Wardieu. Though he came with the peasants, the porter at the gate subjected him to much scrutiny before finally allowing him within, and only then after a thorough search to ensure he carried no weapon.

  It was a humiliation Edward Charwyck intended to repay on the first unfortunate soul to cross his path.

  Toting his basket of bread to be baked in the lord’s oven, he followed the others across the outer bailey. Since he appeared to be but an old man outfitted in rags, none paid him any notice when, after leaving his bread at the ovens, he slipped behind the granary to study the comings and goings of the castle folk. There would be a pattern, he knew. He had only to find it.

  Sometime later, a large man with pale-blond hair crossed the inner drawbridge, making for the stables with knights in tow. Edward was certain this must be the lord of the castle, Ranulf Wardieu.

  It was not easy to contain the impulse his mind urged him to, but the piece of sanity to which he clung reminded him he was without a weapon and would be heavily outnumbered even were the man alone.

  Were all spawns of the devil fair of hair? he wondered, thinking of the one carrying Balmaine’s misbegotten whelp. Nay, Balmaine and his sister were dark. How could one be certain, then? Not all carried the mark of the devil clear upon their faces as his daughter did.

  Slurping the excess spittle from his sagging cheeks, he pressed himself deeper into the shadows and waited to discover whether or not Wardieu would make this easy for him. Within minutes, he had his answer.

  “Easy,” he muttered when the falcons were brought from the mews. He grinned as the hunting party mounted their horses.

  By the time they rode out beneath the portcullis, the old man was trembling with excitement, so much that he feared his heart might burst. Rubbing a hand to his chest, he stepped from the shadows, his empty basket concealed beneath the patch-cloth mantle hanging askew from his shoulders.

  He entered the donjon by way of the kitchen. When a serving wench asked him to explain his presence, he knocked her unconscious—might even have killed her—and hid her in the pantry.

  “Meddling wench,” he grunted, then peered around the corner at the enormous hall that put the one at Medland to shame. There were a few servants about, but none noticed him as he crept along the walls to the stairway.

  At the landing above, he heard women’s laughter before he came upon the source. He crept down the corridor and paused outside the room whence the voices issued.

  The door stood open a hand’s width, providing a view of the backs of two women bent over an embroidery frame—one dark-headed, the other fair like the lord of this place. There were others there, but he could only hear them.

  “Nay, Daughter, ’tis too large a stitch you make,” the pale-headed older woman laughingly admonished.

  There came a heavy unladylike sigh. “Give me a sword, a bow, a sling, but pray do not give me a needle!”

  Following the heartfelt declaration came youthful laughter from those he could not see.

  “And who will teach Gillian the ways of a lady if not you, Lizanne?”

  Edward’s heart punched his breastbone as he felt again the impulse to slay his enemy. He thought of the knife he had taken from the kitchen, but once more his grasp on sanity prevailed. In good time he would have Lizanne Wardieu’s flesh, not this day.

  “Ah, Lady Zara, it is a waste of time,” Philip’s murderer said.

  Edward pressed himself back against the wall and darted his gaze along the corridor as he tried to guess behind which door the child lay.

  The woman chuckled. “You have already told Ranulf of your gift. What will my son think when you do not deliver it, hmm?”

  “Much better of me if he is not obliged to wear it. Look at this! ’Tis more like a pig than a horse!”

  “You must needs make its legs longer.”

  A shriek. “Then it will look like a pig with long legs!” The sound of a stool scraping the floor had Edward gripping the knife handle. Perhaps he would have her flesh this day, after all.

  “And where do you think you are going? You promised me an hour—a full hour, Lizanne!”

  The feet approaching the door faltered. “It has been at least that long.”

  “Nay, it has been half that.”

  A groan. “You would hold me to it?”

  “I would.”

  “But Gillian—”

  “Is sleeping. Now sit.”

  A long silence followed before the woman won her daughter-in-law’s grudging capitulation.

  Regaining his breath, Edward slipped past the room and headed for the door at the farthest end of the corridor. It would be the lord’s solar, and if he guessed correctly, there he would find what he sought.

  He eased the door open, pressed his face to the crack, and eyed the room. Though taken aback by the presence of a maid seated alongside the sleeping infant, he was not disappointed.

  The girl was humming to herself, holding a small garment close to her face as she pushed a needle through its bodice.

  Subduing the half-sighted maid was simple. However, preventing the child from awakening when he lifted its small body and placed it in the basket proved trying.

  As he wedged a sheet around the fitful babe, he considered the abundance of flaxen hair covering its head. Though it was a girl child, worthless in his estimation, he did not doubt they would come for it. And when they did, he would exact revenge, gaining for himself the child he really wanted—the Balmaine heir.

&nbs
p; He turned to the bound maid who squinted up at him and mumbled something behind the gag he had shoved in her mouth. When he placed the knife against her cheek, her eyes grew round and body shook with fear.

  “Tell them this,” he rasped, leaning near so she could better see him. “The child’s life for Philip’s.” Then, in one arcing motion, he cut a half circle into her flesh.

  She screamed against the gag, but it was too choked for any but Edward to hear. He tossed the bloodied knife on the sheet alongside the child, then concealed the basket beneath his mantle.

  Whether or not he made it outside the castle’s walls to where his men awaited hardly mattered. The child and the knife with which it shared its bed ensured he would have his revenge, be it this day or a fortnight hence.

  Lizanne did not walk from the sewing room. She ran. Eyes feeling crossed, fingers stiff, rear end sore from sitting too long on an accursed stool, she hurried down the corridor.

  At that moment there were only two—nay, three—things she wanted. To find a comfortable chair. To place Gillian to her heavy breasts. And to discover a way out of the commitment she had made to take up the needle.

  At the door to the solar, she paused, straightened her bliaut, and drew a deep breath. Then, not wishing to disturb her daughter if she still slept, she quietly entered the chamber.

  Her smile dropped at the sight of the young maid amid the rushes who struggled to free herself from ropes that bound her hands and feet.

  “Gillian!” Lizanne cried and rushed forward to confront what she prayed was not an empty cradle. She pushed aside the covers, searching for the tiny body that was long gone.

  Her scream brought all within hearing running.

  Lady Zara was the first to reach her. “Dear Lord!” she exclaimed, beginning a search of the empty cradle herself.

  Lizanne shook free of the fear paralyzing her and grabbed Zara by the shoulders. “Ranulf! Send for Ranulf!” She pushed her mother-in-law toward the door and caught sight of the steward there.

  “Seal all entrances to the castle,” she ordered. “Allow none within or without until my husband returns.”

  The man ran.

  Lizanne dropped to her knees beside the maid and pulled the girl’s head onto her lap. Wincing at the sight of her poor, ravaged face, she removed the gag with trembling hands. “Marian, where is my baby?”

  The girl mouthed words, but no sound exited. She drew a wheezing breath, swallowed hard, and tried again. “H-he took her, milady.”

  “Who took her?”

  Marian shook her head. “Old man. He said…”

  “Aye?”

  She coughed. “The babe’s life for…Philip’s?”

  Lizanne jerked, then gasped as the implications fell upon her like a violent rain.

  “Dear Lord,” she breathed, “it cannot be.”

  She looked again at the cut on Marian’s face. Though there was too much blood to be certain, she knew. She lifted her skirt and, as gently as possible, wiped the crimson away.

  “Charwyck,” she choked as she stared at the crude C. With a sob, she covered her face with her hands and began to pray more vehemently than ever before.

  It seemed the world would end before Ranulf returned from hunting, though it could not have been much more than a half hour before he sprinted into the hall.

  Lizanne flung herself into his arms, loosing the tears she had tried so hard to keep in check.

  “Gone,” she wept as he held her. “He has taken our baby.”

  Knowing every second that passed took Gillian farther from them, Ranulf pulled back and lifted her chin. “Who has taken her, Lizanne?”

  She muttered something and sobbed louder.

  “Strength!” He gave her a shake when she crumpled against him. “Where is your strength, warrior wife?” He shook her again, and this time she met his gaze.

  “Charwyck!” she spat and dashed away tears with the back of a hand. “’Tis he who has taken our Gillian.”

  Only once before, when he had believed Lizanne lost to him, had Ranulf felt such pain and rage. Roaring it, he pulled her to where his mother stood beside the maid who had cared for the babe.

  “Everything,” he demanded, slamming a fist on the table over which the girl slumped. “Tell me everything, Marian, and be quick about it.”

  He allowed himself only a moment of regret when the maid lifted her face to reveal the cruelty of Edward Charwyck. He could afford no more.

  Since Marian had cried herself out, she was better able to relate to Ranulf the events that had led to the abduction of Gillian.

  “A basket,” Ranulf said. “And how came he into the donjon?” he asked no one in particular.

  “Through the kitchen entrance,” Lizanne said.

  “And none tried to stop him?” He could not believe the man had slipped inside the walls undetected.

  “Aye, but she is dead,” Lizanne said and told him they had found the serving woman’s body in the pantry.

  Ranulf bellowed again. He wanted the blood of the old man as much as he had wanted the blood of the son. And he would have it. Every last drop.

  He turned to his friend, Walter, who stood beside Lady Zara. “We ride now!”

  The vassal stepped away from his wife and came to stand before his lord. “All is being readied, my lord. The horses are saddled, provisions gathered, and the dogs eager to catch the scent.”

  Delegating emotion to the confines of his heart so his judgment would not be clouded—truly, an impossible task—Ranulf turned to Lizanne. “We will need a fresh scent,” he said, his warrior’s logic gaining the upper hand.

  “The sheets,” she said. “And I must change.” She swung toward the stairs.

  Ranulf caught hold of her and pulled her back around. “Nay, you will stay. We will find her. I give you my word.”

  “I will not stay! ’Tis my child! I did not labor to give her life only to abandon her now.” She wrenched free. “If you leave without me, Husband,” she called over her shoulder, “I will follow. You know I will.”

  He certainly did. Frowning darkly, Ranulf watched her mount the stairs and disappear from sight. Of course he could set a man—nay, a half-dozen—to ensure she did not follow, but woe to those who found themselves given such duty. And still she would likely escape.

  God’s eyes! His warrior wife was no tamer than the day she had forced him to take up a sword against her.

  Turning to Walter, Ranulf ordered, “See that my wife’s horse is saddled as well.”

  “If she goes, I go too!” Lady Zara declared. Not waiting for the dissent she surely knew would follow, she lifted her skirts and hastened across the hall.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Still Gilbert would not attend mass with her.

  Would he ever? Graeye wondered as she crossed the bailey with Groan on her heels. In the past month since they had reached their agreement, she had sensed a weakening of his resolve to distance himself from God. In fact, he had hesitated quite a long while before refusing her this morning.

  Whether it was tomorrow or when their babe was born—a few weeks hence—she was determined to have Gilbert on his knees beside her in the chapel. Only then, she was convinced, would the wounds of his tragic past heal. Then whatever feelings he had for her might grow, perhaps even into love.

  “’Tis the stars you wish for, Graeye Charwyck,” she chided herself as she slowly mounted the steps to the donjon. With each passing day, the child grew more heavy, claiming every stretch of space within her until she thought she might burst.

  Ah, you will not be small, will you, dear one? she mused. You will be more of your father than of me.

  Refusing to allow her mind to drift further down the path to the birthing, she stepped into the hall. Instantly, Groan lunged across the rushes and set to growling.

  A sharp reprimand from Gilbert sent the big dog skulking beneath a bench where he continued to rumble. Though relations had improved between the two males, it was still far from
friendly.

  As it took Graeye’s eyes several moments to accustom themselves to the indoors, she heard the voices before she saw the men at the far end of the hall. Upon the raised dais sat Gilbert, Sir Lancelyn on his left.

  “Lady Graeye,” Gilbert called as he rose and started toward her. “We have a guest.”

  A few moments later, she took the arm he proffered and walked beside him to the dais.

  “Sir Lancelyn,” she said and made an awkward curtsy.

  Having gained his feet, the vassal bent over her hand. “My lady, you grow more beautiful each time I chance to cross your path.”

  She blinked. Such flowery words? For whose benefit?

  She looked up at Gilbert and saw displeasure in his eyes. Jealousy? Regardless, it had not been said for his benefit. For hers, then? But she had thought Sir Lancelyn rather cool toward her…

  Courtesy only, she concluded and asked, “You have business at Penforke?”

  He glanced at Gilbert. “Aye, business.”

  “You will be staying long?”

  “I fear I cannot. I must needs return to Medland ere night falls.”

  Then he would have to ride like the winter wind to achieve that end, Graeye mused. “How does Medland fair?”

  “All is well, my lady. The people are content, the crops sowed, and soon the donjon will be taken down and a stone tower erected in its place.”

  “’Tis difficult to comprehend such changes in so short a time,” she said. “Obviously, you are, indeed, the laudable man Baron Balmaine claims you to be.”

  He smiled, once more glanced at his liege. “I am pleased to know I am so highly regarded.”

  “That you are,” Gilbert said, then drew Graeye toward the stairs. There, he halted and said, “As methinks it will be hours ere I finish with Sir Lancelyn, it will not be possible to take our ride today.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Naught you must needs concern yourself over.”

  She did not think she should believe him, but saw nothing in his expression to dissuade her from the sense of security she had enjoyed since arriving at Penforke. “Very well,” she said, though disappointed at being unable to take advantage of the lovely day. Since that first time Gilbert had taken her to the stream, they had returned nearly every day that the weather allowed. And the last three had been wet and overcast. Hopefully, the next would dawn as beautifully as this one.