by Gayle Callen
She entered the dim stables, relieved to be away from the glaring men and women. The horses gladly accepted her pats on the nose and words of greetings. She found the one she wanted to ride and began to saddle it.
"M-milady?" croaked a husky young voice from directly behind her.
Isabel looked over her shoulder at a stable boy, barely up to her waist in height, holding his cap in his hand and staring open-mouthed at her. He was trembling.
"That horse is his lordship's."
"Then that makes it mine, doesn't it?"
She hadn't meant her voice to sound so cold. The boy stumbled back a pace, about to shred his cap in
agitation. How did one talk to children who were frightened to death? He turned and fled before she could find the words.
Isabel turned back to the horse. Misery was strangling her. When she heard a deep cough behind her, she whirled around, hand on her empty hip.
An older man dressed in rough woolen work clothes stood at the entrance to the stall. "Milady, begging yer pardon, but I been told ye're not to have a horse this day."
Panic rose higher in her throat, making her words clipped and angry. "And who are you?"
"Baxter, milady, the marshal of the horses." He finally dropped his gaze. "Forgive me, milady, but I have me orders."
She advanced on him but he didn't retreat. "And who gave these orders?"
"Lord Bolton, milady."
Isabel slammed the saddle back on the edge of the stall, but it didn't help the anger that raged within her. She stalked past the bowing man, out to the inner ward. Chickens pecked before her and the dogs found her again, but she ignored everything. How dare Bolton restrict her? Wasn't she the mistress of the hall? Her panic over her newest revenge subsided. He deserved worse.
She strode to the gatehouse. She'd walk if she had to. Anything to hear the silence of the forest all around her, to forget what had become of her life. Two guards stepped in her path, awkwardly shifting their feet and looking anywhere but at her.
"What is the meaning of this?" she asked in a low voice.
"His lordship's orders, miss—milady." The man's ears turned a bright red.
Isabel's sight was swallowed in a haze of red rage as she whirled away from the gatehouse. The walls were pressing in on her. She was suffocating. She pushed through a group of chatting women, heard a scream but disregarded it. She found the entrance to one of the corner towers and went inside, surprising the two soldiers within. Before they could even stand, she started up the winding staircase built into the walls. She ignored the shouts behind her, taking the steps two at a time until she burst out onto the battlements. She went to the curtain wall, leaned her arms against the rough stone and just breathed deeply of the cold morning air, fighting the sense of utter desolation that gripped her. The countryside spread before her, forests and winding river, and farther away rolling hillside pastures.
Such freedom was beyond Isabel now. She was Bolton's prisoner, and he could do whatever he liked and no one would gainsay him. Her breath came in gasps, and for the first time since her childhood, she felt the sting of tears. She buried her face in her hands.
When James came down to break his fast, he wore a merry grin to hide his aching tiredness. Isabel was nowhere in sight, but she couldn't go far. He noticed his knights' stilted calls of "good morning," and wondered what his wife could already have been up to. He sat at the raised dais alone and stared at the porridge placed before him by a red-faced serving girl.
As he began to eat, Galway sat down opposite him.
"Milord," the captain said with a nod of his head.
"Galway," James replied. "Are you going to eat?"
"Already have, milord," he said.
James ate silently, waiting for Galway's news. Finally he said, "Is there something you need to say?"
"Your wife is on the battlements."
James nodded, ripping a piece of bread off the loaf. "As long as she has no rope, we'll be fine."
"She tried to saddle a horse."
He grinned. "I imagine she wasn't happy when she discovered my orders."
"No, milord. She tried to enter the gatehouse."
"Ah, desperate was she?"
"Now she's on the battlements, just staring."
James took a sip of ale from his tankard. "What would you have me do, Galway? She'll come to terms with her married state in her own time."
"I don't think she's taking it all that meekly, milord."
James slowly set down his knife, feeling the first taste of unease. "What are you saying?"
"I been hearing.. .rumors, milord, from the serving wenches, even from the younger, bolder knights."
Tension stiffened his spine. "Go on."
"Your lady said something to one o' the girls, who repeated it to the next, and on and on. Milady said you.. .hadn't finished your vows." Galway, in his own serious way, was practically squirming.
James felt the beginnings of painful humiliation roil through his gut. "'Tis not a lie," he said tiredly. "The girl was scared to death. I could hardly force her."
Galway looked taken aback. "One such as her was afeared of you?"
James shrugged.
"I understand, milord, but some might not."
"Then they have not been married," he said coldly. He quickly ran a hand through his hair. "Forgive me, Galway, I'm not angry at you. Isabel is not making patience easy. I don't know how to treat the girl. I know nothing about her, which is why I'm sending you to Castle Mansfield. Find out anything you can about Isabel and this feud. Tell her steward that I am now in control of her lands."
Galway rose to his feet. "I'll leave now, milord, and reach the castle by late tomorrow."
"Spend a number of days. I need a full report." James lifted a hand before his captain could go. "One more thing. Have her partner released from the dungeon and brought to me."
"What about Lady Bolton?"
It was still so difficult to think of the Black Angel with his family name. She might as well have stolen that, too. "Leave her alone. I don't think she'll jump —she's already set her newest plan in motion, and she won't want to miss it."
Galway bowed and left. James stared at his food, no longer hungry. Oh, she'd chosen well, his Angel had. Nothing like his entire estate thinking he
couldn't bed his own wife. His chivalry was looking more and more like foolishness.
The Black Angel's partner was soon brought in, ragged, dirty, and wild-eyed. He stared frantically about the hall.
"What have you done with her?" he demanded.
James sighed. "No one has told you? Sit down, eat. I'll explain."
"Have you sent her to prison?" the boy demanded gruffly as a soldier guided him to the head table.
"She thinks so." James waved over a maidservant, who brought a basin of steaming water. "Wash your face and hands and allow me to give you the good news."
"Where—"
"Do you know how to wash, or must I have someone help you?"
The boy drew himself up to his full height, which wasn't as tall as the Angel. But he'd probably still grow a few more inches. He already had a man's breadth of chest muscle, and loyalty that James found appealing.
The boy shrugged off the soldier's grasp. "I will wash and sit if you promise to explain what has happened to Lady Isabel."
"I give you my oath."
A few minutes later, the boy sat opposite James, as clean as possible with only one small basin of water, and the guards retreated to either side of the massive doors. Steaming porridge was placed before him, and although he looked longingly at it, he raised his grim gaze to James.
"Where has my lady been?"
"Here, with me." He took a deep breath and met the boy's gaze directly. "By the king's decree, we were married yesterday."
The boy slammed his hands on the table and vaulted to his feet. "What lies do you tell? Where is Isabel?" His gaze wildly searched the hall.
James grabbed the boy's shirt in one han
d. "Sit down and give me the courtesy of listening. After all, I've done nothing to you, and you've committed crimes against me."
He sat reluctantly. "If you're telling the truth, you've committed far greater crimes than mine."
"Do you think I wanted to marry her? Do you think we suit?"
The boy's face turned ashen. "She must have been..."
"Angry?" James suggested mildly.
"What did she do?"
"You mean after she agreed to give me back my knife?"
The boy's eyes widened.
"She married me, of course. What else could she do except rot in the king's prison."
His shoulders sagged. "So everything of hers—"
"Is mine. Including you."
The boy bit his lip and said nothing. James looked into his sorrowful face and sighed.
"Eat your food, and we'll talk."
Defeated, the boy slowly placed the first spoonful of porridge in his mouth. Soon, he was eating faster and faster, until James began to wonder if he'd been eating at all in the last week.
"Will you tell me your name now?" James asked.
Between bites of cheese, he said, "William Desmond."
"Do I know your father?"
"Baron Andrew Desmond."
"I assume you were being fostered at Mansfield?"
William nodded.
"When Lord Mansfield died, why did you not return home?"
William slowly set down his spoon, his gaze on the empty bowl. He seemed to hesitate, and James waited patiently.
"How could I leave her, my lord?" the boy finally whispered, raising imploring brown eyes. "I knew
she might do something desperate, and someone had to protect her. No one ever had."
James sighed. "Will you tell me about her father?"
"No, my lord. That is for Lady Isabel to say."
William sat in grim silence, obviously waiting for his punishment.
"Do you wish to return home?" James asked.
"And leave her here, friendless?"
This was an intelligent lad, he thought approvingly. "Very well. You may complete your fostering here. I'll send a missive to your family. Since all of my property has been returned, and no one was seriously hurt, I will not mention your escapade to your parents."
"I don't have to return to the dungeon?" he asked incredulously.
"Only if you give me cause. I have yet to decide if you are worthy of training with my men. For now your duties will lie in the stables. Finish eating, then we'll present you to the marshal."
"Might I speak to Lady Isabel first? Is she... awake?" His face reddened and he looked away.
James gave a tired laugh. "I hardly ill-used her, boy, as I'm sure you'll hear soon enough. She is not adjusting well to this marriage, so we'll leave her in peace for now. After your duties you can speak to
her. I'll take you to the stables and introduce you to Baxter."
Isabel had earlier seen William led from the dungeon, and now she breathed easier as Bolton took him to the stables. She descended the tower quickly, crossed the inner ward, and found William mucking out a stall. She watched him for a moment, feeling offended that the son of a baron should have so menial a task.
William looked up, and his brown eyes shone with a warmth that eased Isabel's spirits.
"My lady," he said, coming forward and reaching for her hands. He stopped, wiped his palms on his hose, and gripped her hands. "I was worried for you."
She surprised herself by leaning forward and kissing his cheek. He reddened.
"William, I'm sorry I could not have you released yesterday. Did Bolton tell you why?"
He nodded. "The wedding, you mean?"
"If you can call it that."
"Isabel, I am so sorry that all your plans have come to this. Why did the king insist you wed?"
"He made a present of me," she said sarcastically, "in gratitude to his noble servant, Bolton."
"Oh." William avoided her eyes and hefted the pitchfork.
"I had no choice," she insisted.
He looked surprised. "I know that, my lady. Why would I doubt it?"
"Because I myself can't imagine why I did it."
"If you'd have gone against the king, you'd have lost everything."
"Did Bolton tell you that?"
"No, Lady Isabel," he said patiently, as if everyone would obviously understand.
She sighed, and for a moment a tense silence hovered between them. William finally cleared his throat and spoke, his voice so soft she could barely hear it.
"Isabel, did he.. .hurt you?"
Her skin heated but she didn't look away. "I made sure all the servants knew that he did not consummate the marriage."
William gasped. "You told such a lie?"
'"Tis no lie."
He slowly closed his gaping mouth, and his brows lowered in thought. "I wonder why he—"
"Enough," she said sternly. "Why does he force you to muck his stables?"
"But this is where I start my service."
"You'll be able to stay?" She heard the silly hope in her voice.
William smiled. "Yes, Isabel, I'm staying. I can't leave you here alone."
"But the son of a baron—in the stables?"
"I'm grateful. He could be sending me home in disgrace. I stole from him."
"That is my doing, not yours. I shall make him see that." Isabel once again thought how foolish she'd been to allow William to accompany her. The guilt would not rest easy.
"My lady, I must finish my duties. But one last thing—be careful. This...rumor you're spreading will only anger him."
"And humiliate him," she added with relish.
"Yes, and a humiliated man might not show any more sympathy to his new wife."
"Sympathy?" she cried. "When has he shown me that?"
William began to shovel out the manure. "I would say he showed you more sympathy last night than most men would."
Isabel turned on her heel and walked out.
James spent the rest of the morning with his steward, going over his account books and seeing
where his dowry money—old and new—would be most useful. He tried not to think of Isabel, but occasionally a maid would helpfully inform him that she still kept to the battlements, after her one visit to the stables.
If James had to speak to one more blushing, giggling maidservant, he would erupt into an angry defense of his chivalrous behavior. What were his people thinking? That he should just force his attentions on a woman who could barely come to terms with her married state?
He held his temper without answering everyone's obvious questions. At dinner, the soldiers and servants flooded the great hall. Isabel entered, William Desmond beside her. Though she tried to sit at a far table, James had her escorted to his.
"Your place is beside me, wife," he said sternly. As William bowed and turned away, he added, "Sit with us, Desmond. My wife seems to enjoy your company."
No one else made any move to join them, and James wasn't surprised. Who would want to sit between a rumor-mongering wife and her frustrated husband. But Father Carstairs suddenly waddled forward and sat at James's left hand, after nodding to Isabel. Isabel practically turned her back to talk
to her squire. James sighed and began to eat his fish stew.
For a few tense minutes, he watched Isabel eat as if she were starving. Then Father Carstairs tugged on his arm.
"Lord Bolton, might I say something... indelicate?" the priest asked in hushed tones.
James gritted his teeth, feeling his meal sit in a ball in his stomach. "What is it, Father?"
"My son, I have heard whispered rumors that disturb me."
James rolled his eyes. Didn't even a priest care that he showed a woman mercy? He felt his face grow red, sensed every eye surreptitiously glancing their way.
"I worry about the legality of your marriage in the eyes of the law, my son. Perhaps you need to—"
Before the priest could utter another word, Jam
es slammed his hands down. The hall fell into immediate silence, as if they were all just waiting for an excuse to openly listen.
"That is enough!" James shouted, and his voice echoed from wall to wall. "If respecting my wife's fears is such a terrible thing, then by all means, let us consummate this farce!"
Chapter 11
Isabel stood so quickly her chair fell in a clatter. This was not what she had meant to happen.
"Not so fast, my loose-lipped wife."
Bolton grabbed the back of her doublet. She staggered and found herself spinning towards him. He caught her full against him and she struggled wildly. Bedlam erupted as knights and serving girls and travelers roared with laughter.
"Of course I shall kiss you," he said loudly. "I promise to do more than that."
Holding her body against his with one hand, he gripped her chin with the other and forced their mouths together. Isabel tried to bite him, but he only spread her mouth open and plunged in his tongue. Before she could even think how to react, he broke the kiss and gave her a triumphant grin.
Then her world turned upside down as he bent and flung her over his shoulder. Her breath left her lungs with a giant whoosh, and she found her face against the rump of his multicolored hose. She reared away and tried to punch him.
"None of that, Angel," Bolton said. "I can tell how eager you are. I will hasten to our bedchamber."
The laughter almost hurt Isabel's ears and her mortification burned. How dare he turn her revenge around on herself?
Bolton started to walk and came to an abrupt halt, bouncing her against him.
"William, sit down," he said coldly.
She tried to see what was going on, and failed. Her squire mustn't interfere and risk his own safety, not again.
"But, Lord Bolton—"
"Learn your place, boy."
William must have given way, because James was on the move again, taking the stairs two at a time and slamming her into his shoulder repeatedly. The cheers and laughter mercifully died away as they turned down the stone corridor.
Isabel heard him fling open the door, and a moment later she found herself flat on the bed. As she came wildly to her feet, he slammed the door
