by Tamara Leigh
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A quarter hour into dawn and still no word from Wulfrith.
Christian stared at the empty space between him and the door and silently cursed the thwarting of his plan. He had been certain his offer would be accepted, albeit grudgingly, but the Wulfriths did not even deign to send word of their rejection. Arrogant knaves!
“I do not think they are coming, my lord,” Sir Hector said from the opposite side of the table that claimed nearly a quarter of the lord’s solar.
“So it appears.”
“Then?”
Christian knew what he asked, just as he had known on the night past what he would answer. “As Lady Gaenor will eventually be my wife, still you will bear witness for her sister.”
No surprise rose on the aged knight’s face, for he knew his lord better than Michael D’Arci. And Christian resented him for it.
When a rap sounded on the door, he called, “Enter!”
His squire stepped inside. “My lord, Baron Wulfrith—”
—“calls,” Wulfrith growled, pushing the young man aside, as did the Wulfrith knight who followed.
As Sir Hector stepped forward, sword to hand, Christian rose and gripped his own sword hilt, but when Wulfrith’s sheathed sword remained at his side, Christian also left his blade sheathed. With a slight shake of his head intended to restrain Hector, he asked, “There is something you require, Baron Wulfrith?”
The man halted before him. “A discussion of your proposal.” Wulfrith acknowledged Sir Hector with a glance—Hector whose guard was divided between Wulfrith and the knight who took up a position near the door.
Accustomed as Christian was to looking down on other men from his ample height, there was something exhilarating about meeting this man eye to eye. Indeed, though Wulfrith’s reputation as a warrior was well known, Christian almost wished the man would set upon him.
He looked to the uncovered windows. “It is past dawn, Baron Wulfrith.”
Wulfrith’s grey-green eyes revealing his anger, the red-veined whites witness to his sleepless night, he said, “Dawn enough.”
Christian raised an eyebrow. “I do not see what discussion there is to be had. Either you accept or you do not.”
“I have my own terms.”
Christian looked to his squire who stood inside the doorway glowering between the two men who had pushed past him. With a thrust of the chin to indicate the young man should withdraw, Christian returned to Wulfrith. “Speak.”
“Ere I accept your proposal, I would know to what Sir Hector intends to testify in my sister’s defense.”
“That will be revealed at trial.”
“You think me so fool to agree to hand over my sister based on your word that this knight’s witness will be of use?”
“As King Henry has commanded that your sister and I wed, I do not require your agreement to deliver her. Be it a sennight hence, be it a year, she will come to Broehne.”
Something drew Christian’s gaze to Wulfrith’s knight, and he saw the man’s face was flushed and teeth nearly bared. Indeed, he seemed to seethe as much as his lord. Interesting.
Christian looked back at Wulfrith. “I but wish to avoid further delay and strain between our families that will reflect poorly on the Wulfrith’s loyalty to King Henry.”
The baron’s nostrils flared, and Christian knew he struggled with things beyond his control, just as Christian had done much of his life. “Do you accept or do you not?”
“Not as the proposal stands. I will deliver Gaenor only if I deem Sir Hector’s witness is of use at trial. Now, do you accept, or do you not, Lavonne?”
Though Aldous Lavonne would have rejected such terms, it was near enough what Christian wanted. He would have to have faith, were faith yet possible for him, that Wulfrith was honorable as was told. Fortunately for them both, Christian knew what kind of man Geoffrey had been such that he would not allow his brother’s death to sway him in the direction their father had gone.
“I accept,” Christian said, though it chafed that he should be the one to accept the proposal he had set in motion.
Wulfrith leaned forward and surprised Christian with a brief kiss on the cheek. “That,” he said low, “is to remind you that whatever you do to my sister, Gaenor, I shall do to you.”
Hands aching from the ferocity with which he closed them into fists, Christian met Wulfrith’s gaze as the man stepped back. “Providing you are honorable enough to abide by our bargain,” he said, “your sister has nothing to fear from me, nor you, nor any others of your family, nor your people.”
The arrogant man smiled. “Then we understand each other.” He strode to the door where his knight remained unmoving, the man’s wrathful gaze upon Christian.
“Sir Durand,” Wulfrith clipped, the name causing Christian to frown and the knight to jerk as if surprised to find his lord so near.
As the knight followed Wulfrith from the chamber, Christian realized this was the one said to have used the name “Sir Piers” to gain entrance to Soaring—and who had then led Wulfrith to the abbey to avert the attack. But there was something else about the name—
“Sir Durand seems as displeased as his lord,” Sir Hector said, stepping before Christian.
“Curious,” Christian murmured, only to recall the other reason the name was familiar. Sir Durand was the knight who had escaped with Lady Gaenor. Was the death of his fellow knight at Sir Hector’s hands responsible for his animosity? Or something else?
“It seems there will soon be a wedding at Broehne,” Sir Hector mused.
God willing.
“You are a fool, Lady Beatrix.”
It seemed always the answer to those who did not understand what she did. Though she now realized that the man before her was only trying to aid her, she snapped, “What I am is innocent, and that I shall prove.”
From where he stood inside the doorway of the chamber, arms over his chest, the king’s justice glanced at Michael and Abel before returning to Beatrix. “My lady, absolution would—”
“But justify my murder of Sir Simon. I did not murder him, and I shall not…admit to having done so.”
“She will have her trial.” Michael stepped past her and halted before the justice. “A trial that delivers a verdict, be it of innocence or guilt.”
The man’s mouth pinched. “There can be no guarantee that Lady Beatrix will be found innocent, though I have chosen the jury to ensure it is not tainted.”
Beatrix closed her eyes. Upon awakening this morn, Michael had revealed to her that Aldous Lavonne had not chosen the jury. However, she was once more relieved to hear the justice confirm it—such relief that she thought perhaps a breeze had come through the window.
She looked to the justice. “Then I shall have a fair trial, which is all I ask.”
“As you would, my lady.” He lowered his arms to his sides. “It is time.”
Already the jury was convened? But the sun was barely risen…
Beatrix looked to Michael. Though his face might appear impassive to others, she knew his foreboding.
“We require a few minutes,” he said.
As the justice exited the room, the personal guard who had escorted the man abovestairs placed themselves one in front of him and one behind.
Michael closed the door. When he turned back, Beatrix saw his lower jaw was forward. Though she did not doubt he believed he and her brothers could steal her from Broehne Castle if the trial went wrong, he was grim for fear of what she would soon face.
“’Tis as you wished it,” he growled.
She clasped her hands at the waist of the green gown given to her by Lady Laura. “As it must be.”
“Lord!” Abel flopped back in the chair from which he had unfolded when the justice entered. “’Twould be more expedient to gag and steal you away, sister.”
“Then I am grateful you are the younger brother and not Garr,” Beatrix said and wondered again where Garr had gone. Though he had been here w
hen she awakened, he had mostly stood at the window and brooded over the bailey below. Shortly after dawn, he had exchanged glances with Michael and Abel and stalked from the chamber. Surely he should have returned by now?
Before she could ask after him, the eldest Wulfrith entered. As Michael turned to him, Abel looked up from his chair and something once more passed between the three men.
“What have you done, Garr?” she demanded.
He halted and set his hands on her shoulders. “My word stands, Beatrix. Rest in it.”
Still, something—
“Let us pray,” he said.
She expected Abel to grumble all the way to her side, but he spoke not a word as he rose from the chair. Seeking out Michael, she saw he hesitated to join them and felt his discomfort at what Garr proposed. However, when she smiled at him, he strode forward and slid his hand into hers. They bowed their heads.
Though Beatrix had always been in awe of Garr’s faith, she had never been more grateful for his guidance. For those who thought belief in God made one weak and vulnerable, they had but to hear the words her eldest brother spoke above their heads to be convicted otherwise. Regardless of what happened today, God was with her always.
“How say you, Lady Beatrix?”
Struggling with a mix of fury over Aldous Lavonne’s presence in the hall, the old man having been carried down by Sir Robert, and ache over Beatrix who stood alone on the dais before the justice, Michael stared at her.
Again and again, he lived the fear in her eyes when she had looked on the scarred old man and realized who he was, but he had contained his emotions. He would not allow Aldous the satisfaction he sought in presenting himself at trial—Aldous who no longer seemed to care that others gaze upon the devastation wrought by fire.
“Lady Beatrix?” the justice prompted.
She looked to the jury that shared the lord’s table with him. “I did not do what is said of me,” her voice rose clear across a hall crowded with knights, men-at-arms, and castle folk. “Thus, I do not seek…absolution, which is best reserved for those ill of mind. That I am not.”
“You understand, Lady Beatrix, that if you are found guilty you shall hang?”
“You understand, Lord Justice, it would be an innocent woman you hang?”
Michael almost smiled. Though it would be best if she did not test the man’s patience, she was to be admired. For all she had suffered and now faced, she was strong.
“So say you ‘nay’.” The justice lowered his gaze to the parchment before him. “Resume your seat.”
Beatrix stiffened. “I would speak in my defense.”
The man began to tap the tabletop as Michael often did when his own patience was drawn thin. “Do I allow you to speak further, Lady Beatrix, ’twill be in my time, not yours. Return to your seat.”
Although twenty feet separated Michael from Aldous Lavonne who sat to the right, Michael heard the other man chortle. Fury rose in him as he looked around, poured through him when he met Aldous’s gaze that held a glimmer of merriment amid an otherwise gaping void.
As for Christian, he sat stiffly beside his father, the darkness that had risen on his face with Aldous’s appearance still evident. Doubtless, he did not condone his father’s presence. Providing his anger held, both Aldous and Sir Robert would soon discover that the barony had truly changed hands.
When Beatrix lowered to the chair between Michael and her older brother, it took all of Michael’s reserve to not put an arm around her.
“Am I not to be allowed to tell my tale?” she whispered.
Though a defendant was not always given leave to speak, especially a female, Michael did not believe the justice would deny her. He slid a hand across the table and covered her fingers. Knowing Aldous Lavonne watched, he smiled. “Patience,” he murmured. Ironic that he should counsel such…
As the justice set the parchment aside, movement sounded from the doors behind and a muttering rose among those in the hall.
Michael nearly groaned as, past the press of heated bodies from which a cloying scent rose, he glimpsed a familiar figure. He ought to have known Maude would follow. But at least it appeared she had not dragged Clarice and Lady Laura with her.
Silently cursing her will that would make it more difficult to take Beatrix from Broehne, if necessary, he snatched her gaze to his as she stepped down the path that her rank as a lady caused to open ahead of her.
A sad smile aging her drawn face, she looked from Michael’s displeasure to Beatrix.
“Who interrupts these proceedings?” the justice demanded.
Maude made him wait until she reached the dais. Regal as a queen, she inclined her head. “Lady Maude D’Arci, mother of Sir Simon D’Arci.”
The justice rubbed the space between his eyebrows, then flicked his hand toward the tables before the dais. “You may remain.”
So gripped by his own reaction to Maude’s appearance that he had not noted Beatrix’s, Michael was struck by her pale face and the tension in her hand beneath his.
As Maude gained a seat behind them, Beatrix drew her hand free of Michael’s.
He bent his head to her. “She will not speak against you.”
Beatrix nodded. She knew that. But why had the lady come? To tell Lady Laura’s secret? Surely not. Merely to observe?
“Sheriff,” the justice called, “present the evidence.”
Baron Tyrell strode from where he stood at the far end of the lord’s table and lifted the dagger that lay before the justice. “As Baron Lavonne’s men will bear witness, this dagger was wrested from Lady Beatrix Wulfrith when she and Sir Simon were found on the ledge in the ravine.” He turned it for all to see, set it back on the table, and lifted Beatrix’s bloodied gown. “This is the bliaut the lady wore, and it is Sir Simon’s blood upon the bodice.”
The brows of the men of the jury crumpled as they considered the proof of Beatrix’s guilt, and several began to talk amongst themselves.
“Call forth your witnesses,” the justice ordered.
The sheriff returned the bliaut to the table and beckoned toward the back of the hall. Shortly, two men approached the dais.
“Sir Kearse, my Lord Justice,” the sheriff indicated the short, rotund man, “and Thomas Mason. These men found Lady Beatrix holding the dagger over the body of Sir Simon.”
Michael glanced at Beatrix.
She shook her head and whispered, “I do not remember them.”
Considering her head injury, that did not surprise him.
“You attest this to be true, Sir Kearse and Thomas Mason?” the justice asked.
“Aye, my lord,” both spoke as one.
“Yet you did not see Lady Beatrix use this dagger against Sir Simon.”
“Nay, my lord.”
“So ’tis an assumption that evil intent caused the wound that killed Sir Simon.”
The men exchanged glances, and it was the knight who said, “What else was there to conclude, Lord Justice?”
The king’s man sighed. “For this reason, ’tis I who preside over this trial.”
Michael did not need to look around to know Aldous’s seething, for it spilled on the air like poison.
“Is there anything else you would tell?” the justice asked.
“Only that we nearly had to break the lady’s hand to wrest the dagger from her,” Thomas Mason said.
“She attempted to turn it on you?”
“Nay. ’Tis just that she would not release it.”
“No crime in that,” the justice muttered and turned his attention to the sheriff. “Have you any other witnesses?”
“I fear there are none who saw the deed, Lord Justice.”
The king’s man inclined his head and waved at the two men. “You are dismissed.”
As they filed past the table where Beatrix sat, the justice settled his gaze on her. “Lady Beatrix, ere your guilt or innocence is determined, have you something brief to say?”
She blinked. Already her trial was
near its end? And he would allow her to speak but “something brief”? After weeks of turning her tale, untangling her thoughts and tongue that she might defend herself? All for nothing?
“Lady Beatrix?”
“You can do this,” Michael breathed.
“I know.” She glanced at Garr and Abel who returned her gaze. Either they were confident of the testimony thus far or confident that they could steal her away.
She gained her feet. “I have something to say, Lord Justice.”
“Come forward.”
She ascended the dais and, praying her voice would not waver, said, “Sir Simon’s death was un…”
Lord, unbind my tongue!
She looked to the jury. “His death was as unintentional as it was unfortunate.”
“This does not sound brief, Lady Beatrix.”
“Pray, have patience, Lord Justice, and I shall prove my innocence.”
He nodded for her to proceed.
“As you know, I accompanied my sister when she fled our home to escape marriage.”
Imagining Christian Lavonne’s eyes on her—worse, those of his horribly disfigured father whom Michael was certain was responsible for the brigands—she suppressed a shudder. “Sir Simon overtook me at the ravine and…”
Calm, Beatrix. You know what to tell.
“…he touched me as a lady should not to be touched.”
The justice’s eyebrows rose. “You say he ravished you?”
“Nay. Baron Lavonne’s knight, Sir Hector, was there. After he laid down my escort, Sir Ewen”—she forced the image aside lest it trip her tongue—“he ordered Sir Simon to release me that I might go to my brother’s knight. It was from Sir Ewen I gained the dagger ere he died. As Sir Hector was eager to continue his pursuit of my sister, he gave me into Sir Simon’s charge.” She almost sighed to have the words flow unhindered from her.
“And you did not protest?”
“I did, but he…methinks Sir Hector knew my reason for protest, for he gave Sir Simon warning ere he departed.”
“What manner of warning?”
“It was…more a look than words.”
“A look. Hmm.”
He made it sound silly. “After Sir Hector departed, Sir Simon taunted me. Fearful of what he intended, I pulled the dagger and warned him to come no nearer. But he did, so I ran to Sir Ewen’s mount beside the…ravine. Sir Simon gave chase and caught me between his horse and the other.”
