by Tamara Leigh
As for the men set at Soaring, Michael knew who they were, one of them the same who had intercepted his ride on the castle. If Sir Robert, the illegitimate issue of Aldous Lavonne, did not send word this night that an injured Michael had returned and not alone, he would do so before dawn. As usual, Robert’s squire, who delivered the message, would report all to Michael. Such means Michael did not like, for it put Squire Giffard at risk, but it was how it was done. Sir Robert was oblivious, Aldous Lavonne assuaged, and Michael informed.
Michael watched as Beatrix entered the donjon and went from sight. It was as he wished it. When his course was decided would be soon enough for him to see her again.
Nearly barren. Beatrix halted inside the chamber that had taken a half dozen turns of the winding stair to reach. There was a small bed, a brazier, a basin, and an oilcloth stretched across the narrow window. No rushes on the floor, no chairs, no sheets or blankets on the mattress, no shutters at the window. But it was a prison. Even so, it would be more comfortable than the dank, dark crypt where she had lived this past month. Of course, there she’d had herbs to sweeten the night.
But it was not as if she would be long at Soaring. Regardless if D’Arci usurped his lord’s privilege or she was allowed to defend herself at trial—a trial she had so feared, but for which she now yearned—she would soon leave. As for absolution, she had spoken true when she agreed there would be none. She was not witless or mad and would not claim such.
“Is there anything you require, lad?” the knight asked.
She turned to where he leaned a shoulder against the door frame. “I am no lad.” She dropped the hood to her shoulders.
His grooved brow smoothed slightly. “I did not think you were.”
“But you—”
“Lady Beatrix, is it not?”
She nodded. “I am the one your l-lord has searched for.”
Up went a silver eyebrow. “The one responsible for the injury done him at Broehne?” Displeasure edged his voice. “And the injury done him now?”
Of course he had noticed the splints.
“The one who put a dagger to his brother?”
As she saw no benefit in arguing the matter of Sir Simon, she crossed her arms over her chest. “I am the one.”
The knight took a step forward. With eyes that seemed to peel back the layers of her, he murmured, “You are as expected.”
That she did not expect. “I do not understand.”
“’Twas not intended that you should.” He cleared his throat and looked past her. “I shall bring a blanket, coal for the brazier, and a pitcher of water for you to bathe.” His gaze dropped. “And viands to quiet your belly.”
She pressed a hand to her midriff.
“Is there anything else you require?”
“Naught that you can afford me.”
He inclined his head and turned.
Now she would be alone. If only she had— “Sir Knight!”
“Aye?”
“There is one thing. Could you deliver me a…” The word flew away without a backward glance. She squeezed her lids closed to prevent them from fluttering. Though she conjured a vision of the object, it shied away from her tongue.
“Tell,” the knight said.
If not that she needed the comfort of what she sought, she would withdraw her request. “I require…” She swept her tongue over her palate in search of sounds to form the word, but they were not there. Thus, she must go the long way around. She pressed her palms together and opened them. “A book, Sir Knight—the Lord’s.”
Some of the wrinkles melted from his brow. “A psalter.”
“Aye, I am without mine.”
“I shall endeavor to secure one for you.” He halted in the doorway. “I am Sir Canute. As it seems I am to be your jailer, ‘tis as you should address me.”
Her reluctant jailer, for it was surely no pleasant task he had been given. “Very well, Sir Canute.” Providing his name did not flee her.
He swung the door closed. The key scraped, the lock clicked.
Beatrix stared at the door. Would Michael D’Arci ever come through it? Remembering what had happened between them, she touched her lips. Warm breath sweeping her fingers, she told herself that only a fool would believe the near-intimacy meant anything to Michael D’Arci, but could a man who truly believed such ill of her do what he had nearly done? For all of his threats, her heart told her she need not fear him. And in that moment she knew what beat through her. She felt for this man whose brother had tried to ravish her. Might such flutterings lead to more?
“If I may, my lord, you seem changed.”
Michael looked from the flames that spat heat across the hearth to Canute who had yet to take a seat. Other than astride a horse, the man rarely sat. Because of his stiff hip, he told, but Michael knew it was also an issue of vulnerability. In the event of an attack, it was always best to be on one’s feet. “What say you?” he asked.
The aged knight straightened from the chair he had leaned against this past hour while he recounted all that had transpired at Soaring in his lord’s absence. “Only that you do not seem yourself.” His lips twitched. “Else my memory fails me.”
Though Michael knew he should not pursue the conversation, he said, “How do you mean?”
“You are thoughtful.”
“Surely you do not say I have not been so before?”
“You have, but ‘tis as if you do not know your course now that you have what you sought all these weeks—a course you knew well ere we parted at Broehne.”
He spoke of Beatrix. But Michael did know his course. He turned his hand and considered the pale tress he rubbed between thumb and forefinger. The string binding it evidenced the persistent handling to which he had subjected it during Canute’s recounting—frayed and in dire need of replacement. Of course, now that he had Beatrix, he had no need for such a reminder.
“Too,” Canute continued, “though you have now been returned to Soaring for two hours, I see no wench on your lap.”
He had promised himself one, and still he might send for a wench once the affairs of the demesne were settled. But if not this night, then the next.
“The journey was long and, as you can see”—Michael nodded at his resplinted leg—“I am somewhat lamed.”
“The workings of Lady Beatrix, I wager.”
His pride pinched at being bested by the woman, but it was Canute to whom he spoke, a man who knew him better than his own father. It was Canute who had released Michael’s beaten body from the manacles with which Edithe’s father had bound him, Canute who had taken him away and taught him the ways of knight errantry, Canute who had fought alongside him during Duke Henry’s battles. There was none he trusted better.
“Aye,” Michael conceded. “The witch sent me down a hole.”
“Pray, tell.”
It took only minutes to cover what had happened at Purley Abbey and during the journey to Soaring, but it was enough for Canute to finally seek his backside to a chair. At the end of the telling, he murmured, “I see.”
Not all of it, but what had nearly happened between Michael and Beatrix need not be told.
“So for this you are so thoughtful.” Canute steepled his hands beneath his chin. “That though ‘tis told that Lady Beatrix murdered your brother, and all evidence you have of that, she did not leave you when ‘twould have best served her. You are thinking she does not seem one to murder.”
Once again wavering over her innocence, though he had vowed he would do so no more, Michael drummed his fingers on the chair arms.
“How does she explain Simon’s death?” Canute asked.
Michael met the man’s gaze and watched for what he knew would sound from the depths of those old, brown eyes. “She says she but defended herself when he ravished her.”
Understanding lit the knight’s eyes. “A place you have been before, eh, friend?”
Michael quieted his fingers. “A place to which I did not expect to return.”
Canute leaned forward. “Put your mind to this, Michael. The woman did murder your brother. There is no other explanation.”
Michael returned his gaze to the hearth. The dwindling flames caressed the logs, blackening them and reducing them to ashes, reminding him of Edithe. “’Tis as I tell myself again and again.”
“You should.” Canute pushed up from the chair. “Heed me as you did not years past. Keep from Lady Beatrix as you should have kept from Edithe.”
With the foolishness bred of the young, Michael had ignored the warnings of the household knight who had served Edithe’s father. For it, he had lost all. And could lose all again.
“This night, send word to Baron Lavonne of your return, and of Lady Beatrix’s capture.”
“As you know, word of my return has already gone.”
“Aye, but not by your hand.”
He was right. Regardless of this war waged over Beatrix, Michael was Baron Lavonne’s vassal. It would bode ill if he did not himself send tidings. “I give you leave to send word of my return.”
“And of Lady Beatrix’s capture?”
Though Michael nearly argued that if he surrendered Beatrix she might be granted absolution, he knew the argument would not hold with the older man. Forsooth, it barely held with him. Why did he waver? Because she had not abandoned him to the crypt? That, during the storm, she had forfeited escape that she might restate her innocence? That he had never before felt such need to kiss a woman as he had done there between their hoods?
That last slipped in before he could slam its fingers in the door. The result of abstinence, he told himself. That was all.
“You will send word?” Canute asked again.
Why did he press so hard? In the next instant, Michael castigated himself for questioning his old friend. Canute did it to assure no ill befell Michael’s lordship, for it was a terrible risk to refuse the baron tidings of Beatrix’s capture. If it was later discovered that Michael held her…
Still, against all he knew was best for him and Soaring, he said, “I shall soon enough inform Baron Lavonne.”
“When?”
“When I am ready.”
Canute lowered his arms to his sides. “As you would, my lord.” Once more putting their friendship behind him and placing himself in service to Michael, he stepped back. “I leave you to your rest.” He traversed the rush-strewn floor but came back around when he reached the door. “You have not asked after her.”
Affecting nonchalance, though he once more stroked the tress, he said, “Had she escaped, I am certain you would have told me.”
Canute was not amused, as evidenced by his lowering brow.
Though Michael knew he should end the conversation, he asked, “She is being difficult? Refusing to eat or some such?”
“Nay, she ate most heartily.”
He did not care, and yet he was tugged by a longing to once more see her as she had presented at Broehne—as near an angel as one of fleshly form might take.
“Methinks you would do well to seek a wench,” Canute said.
Michael narrowed his gaze on the man. “’Tis good we are friends, Canute.”
“It is good, my lord.” He opened the door and stepped into the corridor. “Very good.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
She was had.
Christian knew he ought to be pleased by Lady Beatrix’s capture, and yet he was pinched with regret. It would be different if not that he was to wed her sister, but still the king required it. And Christian would not oppose the edict, as he had not done when it was first issued despite his father’s rantings. He wearied of the raids against the Wulfrith lands in the name of his slain brother, Geoffrey. The time had come for peace, and marriage between warring families was often the best solution. Thus, he would wed the older sister whose looks were told to be as distant from Lady Beatrix’s as the dark of night was from the light of day. Unfortunately, if such a union was made in the after swell of the sister’s trial, it could only bode ill. Should Lady Beatrix be found guilty, her lethal punishment would hang between Christian and his wife forever. Unless she, like Christian, cared little for her sibling.
Christian studied the flames that beat against the walls of the great fireplace. It was true he had not cared for his older brother, Geoffrey, who had been self-serving and of such ill bent not even Christian was spared his mockery and cruelty. Many were the days Christian had watched as his brother was groomed to rule the barony. Many were the resentments felt that so great an honor be placed in such unworthy hands. Far too many had been his unspoken longings to be his father’s heir.
Though reason told Christian he was not at fault for Geoffrey’s death at the hands of the Wulfriths, he felt responsible. The jealous youth he had been—promised to the Church and mostly confined indoors with his tutor—had prayed for something to happen that would allow him to be named heir. Since little short of Geoffrey’s death would have made that possible, it had been hopeless, or so Christian had believed until, years later, tidings of his brother’s death was delivered to the monastery.
By then, Christian had forsworn his rebellious leanings and accepted his destiny to honor the name his father had given him. Thus, he had been unprepared for Geoffrey’s death and so guilt-ridden by his answered prayer that he had nearly refused his father’s summons to assume his title.
Though the cost of reclaiming a son who had taken final vows was high, Aldous Lavonne had paid it. In the years since, Christian had watched his embittered father waste away amid an excess of ale and petty vengeance against the Wulfriths—vengeance that Christian had allowed to continue as if it might somehow comfort his ravaged father.
Wondering what had become of Christian Lavonne, a man who had finally yielded all to God, who had bent and beaten the steel of his soul into a shape surely pleasing and useful to the Creator, he blinked at the flames. What irony if this was now his destiny—hell’s fire into which he would descend for having so nearly abandoned his faith. Indeed, he whose knees had once been calloused from prayer rarely attended mass now, and then only when the presence of visitors required it.
He shook his head. He had lived both sides of the world—God’s and man’s—and neither satisfied. Surely, somewhere in the space between he would find the peace and fulfillment for which he yearned. Mayhap once he was wed and his wife swelled with child…
Returning to Gaenor Wulfrith, who had yet to come out of hiding, Christian looked to D’Arci’s missive that told that not only was he returned to Soaring, but he had not returned alone. Christian had already been informed of Soaring’s mysterious visitor by the earlier missive received from his illegitimate half-brother, Sir Robert, but it was D’Arci’s missive that confirmed the hooded figure was Lady Beatrix. His missive also told that, due to an injury, D’Arci was unable to return her to Broehne.
Christian cast his gaze around the hall. Though servants cleared away the nooning meal, a dozen or more knights lingered over their tankards. Then there was the squire who had carried D’Arci’s missive. Upon delivering it, the mud-spattered youth had retreated to the edge of the dais.
Christian lowered the parchment. “Squire Percival, tell your lord I am pleased.”
The young man inclined his head. “As is your will, my lord.”
“Ease your thirst ere you make the return journey to Soaring.”
The young man hesitated as if surprised there was not more to be told to his lord. And there was not—for now. “I thank you, my lord.” He descended the dais and strode across the hall on legs that would soon support the weight of armor.
Christian almost envied him his training, which he himself had been denied though he had often defied his father by hefting swords, spears, and pikes in an attempt to attain what was refused him. True, now he had all to which he had once aspired and proven himself worthy of lording the barony, but the bestowal of knighthood was merely token—and empty as was so much in the life that should have been Geoffrey’s.
Christian gripped the parchment harder as he recalled the raging battle fought alongside Duke Henry shortly after Christian was titled “baron.” Though he had not been entirely inept at arms, it was soon apparent to himself and others that he was not a man to whom one should entrust one’s life. But not until one of King Stephen’s knights had bled him had he accepted what his father had known all along. Despite a yearning for the sword felt as a boy, as a man he did not possess the bloodlust of a true warrior. Indeed, his instinct for survival was all that sustained him through the battles—no lusting after the blood of others, no pride or triumph in the taking of lives.
Remembering how his father had scorned him when he returned home injured, how he had muttered that Geoffrey would not have allowed an enemy near enough to draw blood, Christian tensed further. Of course, Geoffrey had allowed such, and for it he was dead. According to the Wulfriths, it was his due. And Christian was inclined to believe it.
The crackle of parchment returned him to the hall, and he stared at the missive in his fist before settling back in his chair. When Squire Giffard had earlier delivered Sir Robert’s missive, Christian had wondered how long it would be before D’Arci deigned to send word of his return. Though the keepers of Christian’s other castles would not dare delay, too often the physician did. But it seemed the man remained loyal despite his unease that justice would be denied Simon. He had good reason to fear such.
Self-serving though it was, Christian did not want Lady Beatrix’s unfortunate fate entwined with his and his future wife’s. But what else was there for it, especially considering his father’s obsession with the opportunity to see a Wulfrith punished for his son’s death? To see a Wulfrith die.
If not that Aldous was unable to move from his bed, Lady Beatrix might have met her end before regaining consciousness, so changed was Aldous Lavonne by the loss of his beloved Geoffrey. Though once the old baron had revered God, so much that he had promised his youngest to the Church, bitterness had turned him from the Lord. His mind now nearly as ravaged as his body, he lived only for revenge.
