by Tamara Leigh
She rubbed the coarse material between thumb and forefinger. “I assure you, ’twill not…offend God.”
“Aye, but Lord D’Arci has said you are not to leave the tower without adequate dress.”
And there was no use arguing with one who would not go against his lord. “Then I shall change.”
He stepped onto the landing and closed the door.
Beatrix gathered the gown against her. Though it had been hemmed, it was still too long, but if she lifted the skirts when she walked, the length could be overcome. And once more she would look like a lady, even without a veil and—
Perse! That was the name of the rich blue cloth. That she had found the word made her smile, but that it was so long in being found caused her smile to slip.
She would have to do much better on the day of her trial.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Throughout the breaking of her fast, time and again the little girl had drawn Beatrix’s regard. Though it became obvious she was Lady Laura’s daughter, meaning the lady was likely widowed, it was just as obvious that the child was fond of Michael.
Hardly had the meal begun than she was on his lap, and though he continued to converse with Sir Canute, he broke bread and cut bites of cheese for her—and seemed not at all uncomfortable with the arrangement.
When the little girl caught Beatrix watching, she stuck out her tongue as if offended by the smile offered her. Thus, it was surprising that, when the meal was done and the hall was being cleared, the child approached.
Having stepped off the dais, Beatrix glanced at Squire Percival where he awaited her at the stairs and clasped her hands at the waist of the gown that had stirred so many to murmuring this morning. Obviously, it was a curious thing that the turning from night into day found her elevated from homespun to Perse.
Beatrix looked from the little girl who neared to the castle folk who withdrew from the hall to begin their day. Michael was among them. Though throughout the meal he had ignored her, when she had first come into the hall his gaze had drawn near and he had stared at her as a man did a woman he found pleasing.
Beatrix had averted her gaze and next encountered that of the knight who had come to take her away. He had also stared, then glowered at Michael. What had he seen? What had made his jaw thrust? And where was he now?
Guessing he had preceded the others out of doors, she shifted her regard to Lady Maude and Lady Laura who now sat before the hearth. The former’s head was bent to a piece of cloth to which she laid stitches, the latter’s gaze stuck to the fire.
The little girl halted before Beatrix and poked the skirts of the borrowed gown. “Momma’s,” she pronounced.
Beatrix smiled. “It is your mother’s, and I am most…grateful that she allowed me to borrow it.”
“For what?”
Bending to better address the little one, Beatrix said, “I fear I did not bring so fine a gown with me.”
“Why?”
“I did not expect to join your mother and Lady Maude in Lord D’Arci’s hall.”
“Why?”
Beatrix moistened her lips. “What is your name?”
The girl poked the gown again. “Give back?”
“I shall.” Beatrix touched her shoulder. “Wh-what is your name?”
The little girl took a step back. “Clawice.”
“Clarice is a lovely name.”
She stamped her foot. “’Tis not!”
Beatrix glanced at the girl’s mother and Lady Maude who both watched the exchange. Hoping they did not think she did the child ill, Beatrix straightened.
“You name?” Clarice asked.
“I am Lady Beatrix.”
“Pwetty name.”
Before Beatrix could thank the child, the knight who had last eve warned her against revealing him stepped from an alcove. A mere shake of the head was all he had given, but it had told all. And now he advanced on her.
Surely he would not try to take her now, not with Squire Percival—
Beatrix sidestepped Clarice. Though tempted to take the girl’s arm and drag her along, she knew it would frighten the child. “Come, Clarice. I must needs…thank your mother for the use of her gown.” Gathering up the skirt, she stepped forward and Clarice followed.
The faces of the two ladies at the hearth reflected little welcome as Beatrix drew near—much the same as when Beatrix had ascended the dais and seated herself two down from Lady Laura. And it was that which pulled her shoulders back and chin up. Regardless of what they believed of her, she was their equal.
“My lady,” Beatrix acknowledged Lady Maude, then bestowed the same address on the younger woman.
Michael’s stepmother set her needlework in her lap. “Lady Beatrix.” Though her voice was not friendly, neither was it hateful.
Feeling the knight at her back, Beatrix stepped nearer Lady Laura and Clarice who had gone to stand at her mother’s knee. “I thank you for the use of your gown, my lady. I shall, of course, return it.”
Garbed in a splendid garment of yellow silk, the lady said, “’Tis not necessary. I have many.”
“But Momma, Lady Maude give it to you.”
The lady patted her child’s hand. “I do not think she will mind.”
Lady Maude shook her head, but before Beatrix could thank her, the woman looked past Beatrix and said, “You are leaving us, Sir Piers?”
Beatrix looked around at the knight. Piers was the name he had taken?
“’Twas my intention, my lady,” he said, coming to stand alongside Beatrix, “but my destrier took ill overnight. If Lord D’Arci grants it, I shall beg another night’s lodging.”
“Of course he shall grant it. He is indebted to you for delivering me safely to Soaring.”
How had he done that?
“It was a pleasure, my lady.”
Beatrix looked across the hall to Squire Percival. Though his face was expressionless, he watched—as did another knight she had not noticed before. The man who seemed to appear out of nothing stood to the far right of the squire, stance rigid, hand upon his scabbard.
He had been set to watch Sir Piers, Beatrix realized. Michael D’Arci was no fool.
Fearing bloodshed should Lady Maude’s guest attempt what he had been sent to do, Beatrix determined that she would avoid the man. “I thank you, Lady Maude”—she inclined her head—“Lady Laura. Good day.”
As she neared Squire Percival, he asked, “The chapel again, my lady?”
Of course he would think so. For nearly an hour, he had waited on her last eve while she knelt in the deserted chapel praying for God’s hand upon her, then again this morning before she came belowstairs.
“Am I permitted to stroll the garden, Squire?”
“Lord D’Arci has said you may.”
It surprised her that he had considered she might wish to. “Then that is where I wish to go.”
She followed him to the corridor through which viands were carried for the meals, but as they neared the door that surely let into the garden, a voice called, “Lady Beatrix?”
She turned to Lady Laura.
The woman considered Squire Percival. “I would speak to Lady Beatrix alone.”
“I am sorry, my lady, but Lord D’Arci has ordered that Lady Beatrix remain in my sight at all times.”
“Then ’twill be sufficient that you watch from the door.”
The squire hesitated, then retreated.
There was color in Lady Laura’s face, and a bit of light in eyes that had been dull when they had spoken in the hall, but she was nowhere near a smile. Indeed, it looked as if her lips never bent upward, the faint grooves alongside her mouth absent. Had they melted away? Perhaps never been?
The woman drew a breath. “All that you told Lady Maude of Sir Simon,” she whispered, “I believe.”
Beatrix blinked. “I thank you, but how—”
“Momma!” Clarice had entered the corridor.
“I just know,” Lady Laura said and bent to receive the
child that hurtled toward her. A moment later, she straightened and settled the little girl on her hip.
Though a dozen questions rolled about Beatrix, she said, “You are…fortunate, Lady Laura, to have such a lovely daughter.”
The smile that touched the woman’s lips was of a bitter bent, but it did turn up her mouth. “I am, but in some things you are more fortunate than I.”
What did she mean? It was not Lady Laura who would soon stand trial for a crime not committed. Not she who had little chance of being cleared of murder.
“’Tis so,” the lady said and turned back down the corridor.
What made her believe what Beatrix had told of Sir Simon? And why had she sought to tell her so?
“Still you wish to stroll the gardens?” Squire Percival asked.
“Aye.” Hastening down the corridor in search of light, Beatrix found it in the glorious herb garden beyond the door.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He ached. There was no other word for it. Each time he saw her, he knew a discomfort unlike any he had known. It was not the gown, though it clasped her figure as tunic and braies could not do. It was not her flaxen hair, though it tempted his hands. It was not even the health returned to her face that made her nearly the angel he had first looked upon.
What, then? Her blue eyes that rarely met his? Her determined chin beneath blushing lips? Those same lips that knew no bow save when she looked upon Clarice?
Michael drummed on the journal, the figures of which refused to be summed with his attention so divided. Why did the mere thought of her make him ache? Why could he not be truthful—at least with himself? Why could he not sum these accursed numbers?
He slammed his gaze to the entries set down this day and focused on the date Canute had written. For this, more than anything, he ached—the passing of days that portended the arrival of the sheriff three days hence.
He sat back in his chair. The days had passed too quickly, as would the remaining three. Then Beatrix would leave Soaring and never return.
It matters not. As it is a trial she wishes, a trial she shall have.
Which returned Sir Piers to mind. A sick horse! Though Michael had himself seen the beast would not rise from its stall, he did not believe it. And yet the knight had made no move toward Beatrix other than that warning shake of his head.
Was he awaiting orders? Wulfrith’s orders? Lavonne’s? It could be either, though the latter worried him the most. If Aldous Lavonne feared absolution as Michael had once feared it, he would seek a way to ensure this Wulfrith did not go unpunished. And what of Christian? Would he allow his father his revenge as he had done in the past by silently condoning the raids on Wulfrith lands?
Michael stood. Where was Beatrix? The garden again? Squire Percival reported that two and three times a day she sought his escort to that place where Michael grew medicinal herbs—among them comfrey and tansy that he had used to speed the healing of his leg. Or had she gone to the chapel? It was also told that she spent even more time among the dust and desertion of that place that few visited since the passing of Soaring’s priest.
Eschewing his staff that his strengthening leg needed less and less, Michael decided to try the garden and strode to the corridor that granted passage. At the far end, the door stood ajar just enough to let in a ribbon of sunlight—and whatever insects happened by.
He scowled as a fly swept past on its way to the kitchen, its merry drone seeming to mock him. However, the scene that awaited him when he pulled the door wide and crossed the threshold was more grievous than the prospect of sharing a meal with filthy insects.
Squire Percival was on his haunches on the path that cut through the middle of the herb garden. And alongside him was Beatrix, also in profile.
The hem of her borrowed gown laid atop her thighs such that her hosed knees were revealed, she reached past the squire. Her arm brushed his and caused a flush to run up the young man’s neck. “And this?” she asked.
The squire peered at the plant she fingered. “I know not the name of that one, my lady.”
She shrugged, and Michael knew the face she turned to Percival bore a smile. “I cannot think of it either, though I vow I know it.”
Jealousy—there was no other word for it—gripped Michael.
Beatrix sat back on her heels. “Mayhap you could cut a s-sprig for me?”
There were other herbs in her lap—fennel of the tiny yellow flowers and sweet woodruff of the white flowers. What did she do? And why did Percival reach for his dagger to accommodate her request?
Michael descended the steps. “You are relieved of your charge, Squire Percival.”
The young man lurched to his feet. “My lord! I did not hear you.”
“That is most obvious.” Acutely aware of the hitch in his stride, Michael glanced at Beatrix. Though she met his gaze, she did not rise.
“I was assisting Lady Beatrix with—”
“I know what you were doing.” Michael halted before him. “You are relieved.”
The squire lowered his eyes. “Aye, my lord.”
As his footsteps receded, Michael considered Beatrix. She had turned her face forward and appeared to look upon the fuzzy leaves and stems of the herb which neither she, nor Squire Percival, could name.
As the garden door closed, Michael said, “Herbs, Lady Beatrix?”
She nodded, causing her silken hair to ripple in the sunlight.
“For what?” He took a step nearer and braced the bulk of his weight on his uninjured leg.
She reached toward the budding herb that would soon produce clusters of exquisite flowers nearly as blue as her eyes and grasped a narrow stem as if to break it. “This one is for…courage.”
That so simple a word could tug so forcefully through him told Michael he should not be here. “You speak of the trial.” He wished his voice did not sound so tight.
She tugged at the stem, but it was too green to give without damaging the plant.
Michael went down on his haunches beside her. Though the muscles of his leg spasmed, he ignored the discomfort and pulled his dagger. As he reached forward, Beatrix jerked her hand away as if for fear they might touch, a fear she had not shown when it was Percival who assisted her.
Jealousy ripening such that had it a smell it would be most foul, Michael swept his blade through the stem and dropped the cutting in her lap.
She stared at it. “Each time ere my father…took up arms, he had prepared for him a wine cup with…” For lack of the name, she picked up the cutting. “…this. He told that, in battle, it increased courage.” She delivered her gaze to Michael. “Not that he required such.”
Michael returned his dagger to its scabbard. “’Tis a claim oft made of Borage.”
Her sharp breath and wide eyes revealed that she had not missed the elusive word, and twice she mouthed it as if to place it firm in her mind. “Of course,” she finally spoke, “mother would say all one needs for courage is God.”
“Myself, I would first try Borage.”
She frowned.
Thinking the turning down of her mouth ought to make her less appealing and bothered that it did not, he continued, “It is known to cause the blood to run faster. Though”—he smiled—“that might have more to do with the wine into which Borage is put.”
Beatrix stared at him.
“So, ‘tis courage you seek,” he prompted.
Her eyes snapped. “God is my courage. Thus, I am not afraid, if that is what you ask.”
“It is not.” He pulled the cutting from between her fingers and eyed the drooping buds. “Even with God on one’s side, a person can always use more courage, can they not?” He returned his gaze to her. “And yet, you seem less in need of courage than any woman I have known.”
She blinked, unsettling the affront she wore. However, its hard angles soon returned. “How many women have you known who…face death for a crime they did not commit?”
None. Until now, the forbidden slipped in. As Micha
el tossed it out, Beatrix smiled bitterly. “’Tis most…remarkable what the prospect of death can make of a person.”
He lowered his gaze. And curled his fingers into his palms when he glimpsed her legs amid her skirts.
She must have seen where his eyes went, for she tugged her gown down. “I did not wish to soil the skirts,” she murmured and reached for the other two cuttings that had slid from her lap onto the path between them.
Michael also reached for them, and again she pulled back to avoid touching him. Suppressing the anger that sought tinder, he lifted the herbs between them. “Fennel and sweet woodruff, the same used to scent your pallet at the abbey.”
His softly spoken words startled Beatrix. He had noticed the herbs? And remembered? Of course, he was a physician. Though she knew it should not disturb her so, it was as if they had shared an intimacy. Fearing he once more trifled with her, she searched for something to turn the conversation. “Squire Percival tells that you are not only versed in h-healing, but warring.”
From his lowering brow, she had made a mistake in revealing what she had learned from the squire. “Does he?”
“He…mentioned it.”
“Then, it seems, you have also bewitched him.”
Though it was true the squire had come around, “bewitched” was not a word she would use to describe their relationship. “’Twas told in passing, that is all. Be assured, your squire is—” The word took to wing, leaving no remnant with which to piece it together.
“Loyal?” Michael interceded.
“Aye, loyal to his lord.” Knowing that what she spoke would be less believed if she did not grant him her gaze, she lifted her chin. Such pale eyes he had…
Feeling herself lean toward him, she pushed her shoulders back. “What I do not understand is how a man can, in one breath, heal, and in another—”
Lord, it does not bode well for him to be so near! Now what had she wished to say?
“Kill?” Michael supplied the missing word.
Hating his impatience, she inclined her head.
“It has all to do with conscience, Lady Beatrix. As I—”
“Conscience? You mean the Holy Spirit?”
