by Cheryl Holt
Blodwin peered up at Hugh. He was sitting on the dais, ensconced in the spot that used to be hers and staring back with his usual cool expression. She’d like to find a way to rattle him, to generate an emotion besides bored disdain.
They were in the great hall, and Hugh holding his daily audience. The room was filled with tradesmen and farmers. They were agog, listening as she discussed what should have been a private family matter. Hugh was humiliating her in front of everyone, and she’d never forgive him for it.
After Cadel had confessed his attempted murder, Hugh had declined to meet with her on any topic. Whenever she tried to approach him, his vapid cousin, Henry, would step in her path.
She hadn’t been able to get within twenty feet of Hugh. She’d sent several messages through Henry—with questions about the castle, her status, his plans for Cadel, for Rosamunde—but Henry always returned with the same answer.
Hugh had no reply.
She’d been effectively neutered, and she couldn’t abide her fall from power.
Her role as mistress of Castle Morven had suited her. With Ranulf away, chasing heathens in the Holy Land, Blodwin had garnered an authority and clout rarely enjoyed by a woman.
But with Hugh’s arrival, it had all vanished.
Anne had seized control of the castle. The few times Blodwin had given orders, she’d been bluntly informed that servants were to follow Anne’s commands and no others.
In the past, when Blodwin was stymied, she’d had her dear Eustace to bolster her influence, but he’d been trounced, too. Hugh had no respect for the church and refused to accept guidance or advice from Eustace.
Hugh’s behavior had forced Blodwin into the untenable position of publicly begging him for favors as if she was no different than a milkmaid or a tanner. She took a deep breath, struggling for calm, knowing that a spurt of temper would get her nowhere with him.
Rosamunde stood in the rear, seething with resentment, and Blodwin was afraid she might explode as Cadel had. Blodwin would lose them both to rash conduct and imprudent thinking.
“I’m told,” Blodwin said, “that you’ve heard from the king’s clerk regarding your request that Rosamunde wed.”
“I have.”
“I’m told that he has suggested appropriate candidates.”
“He has.”
“I ask to see the names of the men you’re considering. It’s my right.”
“According to whom?” Hugh said.
“Despite your fortuitous ownership of Castle Morven, I am still her mother, Lord Hugh.”
“You haven’t previously evinced any concern for her marrying. Why the sudden interest?”
Because I don’t trust you! she furiously mused.
She wasn’t worried about the sort of husband Rosamunde ultimately wed. She didn’t care if he was a drunkard or a brute or a lazy lout. Marriages were entered into for familial advantage, and the husband’s attributes—or lack of them—hardly mattered.
Due to Ranulf’s treason, Rosamunde would be lucky to find any father willing to sacrifice a son over her, which was why Blodwin was so suspicious of Hugh.
Ranulf had been hanged as a traitor, and Cadel robbed of his inheritance, so who would want Rosamunde?
The answer was increasingly vital to Blodwin. Hugh was planning to rid himself of Cadel and Rosamunde. Obviously, Blodwin would be next—unless she made arrangements for herself before he had the chance to make them for her.
If Rosamunde was leaving, Blodwin intended to go with her. She was resigned to accepting the mortifying fate of residing with Rosamunde’s in-laws, but she was desperate to ensure that the situation would be tolerable.
“My daughter is…excited to have this opportunity,” Blodwin lied, as Rosamunde bit down a squeal of protest, “and grateful for your attention. She’s a girl, and she has romantic tendencies. I inquire for her sake.”
Hugh studied her, then Rosamunde, then Blodwin again.
“I will tell you when the details are finalized,” he maddeningly said.
Blodwin could barely keep from snapping at him, but she didn’t. He couldn’t be bullied, and his men would never allow her to pester him. No one was allowed to pester the great and powerful Lord Hugh.
“May I ask about my son?” she tried instead.
“No, you may not. Will there be anything else?”
“Please, my lord Hugh”—she hated the whine in her voice—“he’s a fool and a coward. I admit it. It’s my fault; I raised him poorly. May he be released from the dungeon?”
“So he can attempt to kill me again?”
“He won’t,” she insisted.
Hugh leaned to his cousin, and they had a quiet conversation, then Hugh stared at her again.
“Cadel will soon depart Morven,” Hugh advised. If he’d stabbed her with a knife, he couldn’t have wounded her any more deeply.
“To go where?” she asked.
“Several of my knights are returning to join the king in the Holy Land. Cadel will accompany them.”
“I do not wish him to fight in the Holy Land!” Blodwin vehemently spat. “I do not wish him to fight, at all.”
Hugh was humored by her comment.
“Not fight for king and country? Not fight for your God? Where is your support for the Crown? Where is your religious fervor?”
“He is a boy, Lord Hugh. My husband was taken from me during the king’s quest for glory. Don’t take my son, too.”
“You will be informed when he’s scheduled to leave,” Hugh grimly announced. “You’ll be permitted to say good-bye.”
Hugh waved to his cousin, and Henry stood and bellowed, “Next!”
Blodwin’s audience was concluded, and she was supposed to move aside so another supplicant could have her spot.
Everyone at Morven wanted something from Hugh, and she more than any other person. But why petition him? Why debase herself?
He’d murdered her husband, had confiscated her home, had usurped her authority, and now, was stealing her children. Times were hard, life short, and travel dangerous. Once they left Morven, she’d likely never see Cadel or Rosamunde ever again.
She glared up at Hugh, wishing she was a man, wishing she was holding a lance, that she could throw it and impale him in the center of his cold, black heart.
I’ll get even, she thought to herself. Before you rid yourself of me, too, I’ll get even with you. I’ll make you so sorry.
A knight touched her arm, indicating that she should step away.
She glowered at Hugh, her malice shining through, and she wasn’t concerned to have him witness it. If he realized the depth of her hatred, so what? What could he do to her that hadn’t already been done?
She spun and walked out with her head high.
* * * *
Anne strolled across the meadow toward the cozy, comfortable house that her father had built for her mother.
It had been empty for years, with Ranulf boarding it up after Bedelia death—as if it was a shrine to her. His serfs had been ordered to keep the weeds trimmed, the flowers blooming, and the front path cleared.
After he had died, Blodwin had halted the maintenance. The property was falling into disrepair, so it had lost some of its prior luster, but still, Anne liked to stop by whenever she had the chance.
She was confused by her father’s ardor for her mother, didn’t understand where it had come from or why it had burned so hotly for so long. And if he’d loved Bedelia so fervently, why had he been so indifferent to Anne? She was the product of his infatuation with Bedelia, yet he’d viewed Anne as an irritation, as a nuisance.
She had scattered memories of Bedelia, of her being very beautiful and very happy. In Anne’s recollections, Bedelia was always smiling, playing jests, singing and dancing and telling stories.
Anne could see why a man might be attracted to her. Not as a wife. Not as a mother for his children. But for other, more carnal reasons.
Bedelia had enticed Ranulf as no other person could
. He’d obsessed over her, had cherished her beyond explanation, but once his passion for her had been expended, he’d had none left to share with anyone else.
When Anne had been younger, she’d envisioned herself living in the house someday. Then, as her plans for the convent had formed, she’d assumed Blodwin could be convinced to sell it so Anne could use the money to pay her entrance costs.
On one fruitless occasion, she’d actually suggested it to Blodwin, and of course, Blodwin had laughed in her face. Anne hadn’t asked again, but she’d considered it odd that Blodwin hadn’t seized the opportunity to be shed of the house—and Anne.
Its very existence mocked Blodwin. Why hadn’t she put a torch to it? Her behavior was incomprehensible, and Anne couldn’t guess what drove the woman, what motivated her. Maybe Blodwin simply enjoyed seeing the bitter reminder of all the ways her husband had failed her.
Anne went to the door, tried the latch, and found it sealed—as it always was.
She wondered if anyone would ever reside in the house again, or if it would just decay until it collapsed in on itself from neglect. She hoped not. It had been erected by her father for her mother, and it was Anne’s only enduring connection to them.
Briefly, she closed her eyes, and she could remember the sound of her mother’s laughter. It was fresh and real, as if Bedelia was still twirling through the rooms, singing a song. Anne hummed the tune, recalled from so long ago, mouthing the lyrics, afraid to sing them aloud—Father Eustace demanded that she not—even when she was by herself.
She sighed and smiled, then started off across the meadow, back to the road that would take her into the village and to the castle beyond.
To her surprise, Hugh was there, sitting on his horse, silently watching her. She hadn’t heard him ride up, and she was unnerved by his scrutiny. How much had he observed of her nostalgic stroll?
She blushed with embarrassment, as if he’d caught her doing something wrong. She always blushed when she bumped into him away from her bedchamber.
In the dark of night, they shared their bodies in touching ways, in thrilling ways. But when she saw him other places—in the great hall during his daily appointments, training men in the yard, at the table during meals—she was unbearably shy. They both seemed to have many things they wished to say, but Hugh was not easy to talk to, and she hadn’t figured out how to communicate with him.
As she approached, he climbed down from his horse, and if she hadn’t known him so well, she might not have noticed his grimace as his knees braced to take his weight. He’d been wounded and broken and stitched and badly healed in too many spots to count. Though he hid it as best he could, he was in constant pain.
“Hello, my wife,” he said.
“Hello, my husband.”
“Fancy meeting you here.”
“Yes, fancy that.”
They were standing toe to toe, grinning like halfwits.
He was so manly, so handsome and vigorous, and she never grew tired of looking at him. He was a joy to behold. He could have picked any female to be his bride, but he’d picked her, and she was endlessly grateful that he had.
“Why are you outside the castle walls all by yourself?” he asked.
She pointed over her shoulder. “This was my mother’s cottage. Ranulf built it for her when she first came to Morven.”
“You lived in it as a girl?”
“Yes. I visit occasionally—just to recollect.”
“Are your memories happy ones?”
“The few I have. I was very young when she died.”
She didn’t expound on the changes her mother’s death had rendered. Anne had been abruptly moved from a life of merriment and gaiety to a world of grim silences, festering feelings, and petty resentments. The differences had been so stark, so depressing.
She’d gone from being the only child of a mother who’d doted on her, to being a loathed interloper, to being the object of Blodwin’s hatred and jealousy. Whenever she reflected on those miserable days, it left her extremely melancholy.
He assessed the house. “It’s empty?”
“For many years now. While my father was alive, he wouldn’t allow it to be occupied, and after he passed, Blodwin wouldn’t allow it, either. I don’t know why. I would have thought she’d like to get rid of it.”
“It could be put to good use,” he mused.
“Yes, I suppose.”
She didn’t say more. She couldn’t conceive of another family making it their own. Of course, someone should. It was foolish to have it vacant and untended, but still, she liked that it had been her mother’s and that there’d been no tenant since her.
He turned her away from it and urged her down the lane. They sauntered side by side, his horse plodding along behind.
She was so aware of him, of his larger size and masculine smell and alert attention. He was so conscious of his surroundings, vigilant, watching the shadows, and it had to be an exhausting way to carry on. He never relaxed, never let down his guard.
She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and peered up at him.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she said.
“I’m wondering why you’re without an escort. I’m wondering if I should scold you.”
“Scold me? Don’t be absurd.”
“Or maybe I should scold the men at the gate. What if you’d met with foul play? What if brigands had absconded with you?”
“You’re being ridiculous. Before you came to Morven, I walked everywhere. I don’t need your knights tagging after me as if I’m helpless.”
“Yes, but now you’re mine. How would it look if something happened to you? My reputation would be destroyed.”
She chuckled. “Oh, so it’s all about you.”
“Yes,” he agreed, chuckling, too, “it’s always all about me.”
“And it’s not about me and any brigands who might cart me off.”
“Well, I would be aggravated if I had to chase after you and bring you home. So much trouble, don’t you know?” To her amazement, he leaned down and stole a quick kiss. “I’ll worry,” he said, “if you’re prone to wandering off by yourself. Please don’t.”
“Nothing will happen to me. You’re silly to fret.”
“But I have to. It’s part and parcel of being a husband.”
She liked how he pronounced the word husband, as if it mattered to him, as if he was proud to be one.
She beamed with pleasure, inordinately thrilled to be having an intimate conversation with him without a dozen people listening in.
They ambled along, and he seemed in no hurry. Neither was she. The sky was so blue, the trees so green, the warm summer sun shining down. It was a perfect moment, and she would always cherish it.
“Why are you all alone?” she asked. “Where is your phalanx of guards?”
“I outran them.”
“You don’t like me going off by myself, but maybe I should worry about you.”
“There’s no need. I simply heard a vicious rumor that my wife had meandered away. I thought I should see for myself.”
“You didn’t ride out just because of me.”
He grinned. “Perhaps not.”
“Why are you off on your own?”
“I had to clear my head. Sometimes when I’m in the castle, I can’t think for all the noise.”
“My feelings exactly. That’s why I’m out here, too.”
“Cadel is leaving soon,” he tentatively ventured, abruptly changing the subject. He sounded hesitant, his usual brusque confidence missing. “I can’t have him loitering at Morven and constantly trying to murder me. You’re not angry that I’m sending him away, are you?”
“Why, Lord Hugh, if I didn’t know better, I’d imagine you care for my opinion.”
“I want harmony in my home, remember? I can’t have you seething and devising ways to make me miserable.”
She laughed, liking this lighthearted, teasing side of him.
“Cadel has to
go,” she said. “There’s no future for him here.”
“My feelings exactly,” Hugh concurred, repeating her earlier comment.
His sudden burst of candor charmed her. He never talked about himself or his musings, and he shared so few tidbits that provided any insight into his character or history. She was intrigued to have him discuss issues that affected her.
“I wouldn’t want Cadel to ever harm you,” she told him.
“Would you be saddened if he succeeded?”
“Yes, I would be. Very saddened.”
She gazed up at him, feeling a great amount of affection sweep through her. She let it glow in her eyes, let him sense it.
His cheeks flushed with color, and he glanced away and started walking again. She had no choice but to match him stride for stride.
“What about Rosamunde?” he said. “Am I being an ogre for finding her a husband?”
“That depends on what sort of man he turns out to be. If he’s a drunkard or a violent lout, then shame on you. If he’s handsome and dashing and brave and true—“
“Like me?”
“Yes, just like you. Then you’re wonderful for picking such a valiant fellow.”
She stopped and wrapped her arms around his waist. He seemed astonished, as if he was confused by the gesture.
“Who have you selected?” she inquired. “Have you made a decision?”
“I’m considering a knight with whom I’m acquainted. He’s a third son, but he’s accumulated some wealth in his travels.”
“Is he handsome?”
“Women would think so, I suppose.”
“Is he even-tempered?”
“He can be—unless he’s provoked.”
“So he’s just like you.”
He laughed. “Yes.”
“If he’s so marvelous”—Anne was skeptical—“why would he marry Rosamunde?”
“Because I asked him to.”
“He owes you a favor?”
“Yes.”
“And is he a drunkard? Is that his problem?”
“No. He’s actually quite a fine man. More than Rosamunde deserves, probably.”
It was her turn to steal a kiss.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“For what?”
“For being kind to my sister. For choosing someone suitable. She’s been afraid that you’d deliberately hurt her.”
