by Tamara Leigh
“He is Sir Rowan.”
Christian returned his regard to Abel, the better to enjoy his reaction. “Aye.”
“Formerly of the barony of Aillil.”
Christian inclined his head. “I am aware he was Lady Annyn’s man ere she wed your brother.”
Surprise glanced off Abel’s face. “Do you also know ‘twas he who delivered the blow that killed your brother?”
“I do—and that your eldest brother first disabled Geoffrey.”
“Hmm. You are better informed than I believed, Baron Lavonne—and surprisingly adept at holding your knowledge close.” He narrowed his gaze on Christian before turning it on Sir Rowan. When he looked around again, his mouth bore the trace of a smile. “Given the chance, you would kill him?”
Christian knew Abel baited him, but the streak of stubborn with which he seemed to have been born was determined to give back in equal measure. “But I have had the chance, Sir Abel, for I have not only recently become acquainted with the man’s identity.”
Abel’s eyebrows drew together. “You are saying you bear him no ill?”
“If ‘tis true he killed my brother in defense of Lady Annyn, then I can have no quarrel with him.”
“The tale is true,” Abel bit and leaned near Christian. “But methinks if he knew whose blood you share, he might kill you, for I do not believe there is anything that would convince him Geoffrey Lavonne’s death was not warranted.”
Christian stared into Abel’s eyes. From the look there and the sweep of his breath, he knew the knight had imbibed beyond good sense—so much that he was of a mind to wield a sword. And Christian was tempted. For that, he withheld his hand from his own hilt.
“If Sir Rowan wishes to meet at swords and test my training,” he said, “I shall meet him. But as for the Wulfriths, regardless of whether or not my brother’s death was warranted, providing your family delivers as promised, they need no longer fear the Lavonnes.”
Sir Abel’s face flushed, and a movement told that his hand was more tempted to the sword than Christian’s.
“Share the joke,” a voice came between them at the same moment a hand fell to each of their shoulders.
Sir Abel broke gaze first and looked up at the man who stood at their backs.
Christian followed his gaze to Sir Everard who considered them with warning in his eyes. It seemed little slunk past Everard, the ever-observant.
“I fear you would be as disappointed as I,” Sir Abel said, “for ‘twas not as comic as our guest led me to believe.” He returned his gaze to Christian. “Unless there is more to it?”
Christian stared back. “No more need be told, Sir Abel. Should you meditate on it when your mind is clear of so much wine, methinks what is lacking will come to you.”
The knight turned a hand around his hilt, but his brother also saw it and tightened his grip on their shoulders.
“Mayhap another time, then,” Sir Everard said with a glance around the hall at the young men who were failing to appear uninterested in what transpired at the high table. “And now we should all seek our beds.” He bent near his brother. “Including you, Abel.”
The silence between Christian and Abel tensed further, but then the latter smiled. “I can think of naught I would like better than to part present company.” He lifted his goblet and drained the last of his wine.
Sir Everard released their shoulders. “Good eve, then.”
His brother thrust up from the bench and was less than two strides distant when he came around. “Be assured”—he met Christian’s gaze—“I shall meditate upon your good humor, full up in my cups or otherwise.” He stalked away amid the murmurings in the hall.
With a sweep of the hand, Sir Everard signaled the end of the meal, in response to which goblets thumped to tables, benches scraped the stone floor, voices pitched higher, and laughter sprang up in the absence of the formality of the supper meal.
Christian stood and stepped away from the bench.
“Normally, my brother is of a more jovial disposition,” Sir Everard said with what might have been apology. “I had hoped that, given time, the two of you would cease antagonizing one another.”
Christian looked to the man whose shaved pate reflected the light of torches. “Your brother does not like me. As I cannot say I like him any better, conflict is inevitable.”
“You know he is opposed to our sister’s marriage?”
“I would be blind and deaf if I did not—just as I know you also struggle with the alliance.”
Sir Everard inclined his head. “Though ‘tis true I was displeased by the king’s decree, this past month you have proved worthy and honorable.”
Though Christian told himself he neither sought nor required the knight’s approval, he was pleased to hear it.
“Thus, I no longer concern myself over your intentions toward my sister. All that remains is a struggle borne of her own reluctance. Unfortunately”—he looked to the young men who had turned their energies to transforming the hall into sleeping quarters—“the same cannot be said of Abel.”
Christian waited for the knight to elaborate, and when he did not, said, “Do you intend to keep me in suspense long, Sir Everard?”
“Though ‘tis not my place to tell it, I shall do so that you may better understand my brother.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Abel is fond of Gaenor—at least, as fond as he can be of a sister with whom he has only occasional contact—but his greatest objection lies in having himself known the folly of a marriage not of his choosing.”
“Your brother is wed?”
“No longer. The woman to whom he was married for ten long months is dead—by her own hand.”
“She killed herself?”
“Aye. Though her family attempted to hide the frailty of her mind, Abel knew when they met ere the wedding that something was amiss. But though he asked to be released from their betrothal, the marriage vows were spoken and, for nearly a year, he resolved to make the best of the life dealt him.” He looked to the rushes between their feet. “However, the lady, who had seemed of two minds ere their marriage, became of three, then four—one day a sweet and compliant young woman, the next a spiteful shrew, one day a clinging girl, the next a morose old woman who hid in corners and conversed with shadows.” He looked up. “Ere she took her life, voices in those shadows told her Abel was possessed of the devil and that she should kill him.”
Sympathy that Christian did not expect to feel for Everard’s brother, coiled in his chest.
“That night, when he was abed, his wife took a dagger to him.” His throat muscles convulsed with emotions that, heretofore, Christian would not have believed the knight capable of. “He should have died, for though he was able to deflect the blade, it caught his side and he bled out a goodly amount ere he was able to restrain her. The lady was locked away but escaped a few days later. Once more wielding a dagger, she returned to the chamber where my brother recovered—and turned the blade on herself.”
Christian imagined the horror of it and could not help but pity the man. “I grieve for your brother and his trials and appreciate the confidence you have shared, for it does aid in better understanding his objection to the marriage. However, I would have you assure him that I am of one mind only and your sister need not fear me. Indeed, I shall endeavor to be a good husband for whom she might come to care.” Of course, considering his deception, that might prove difficult. Thus, the sooner he—
“I believe you,” Sir Everard said. “Eventually, I am sure Abel will conclude the same.”
Which would be welcome, though not necessary. “’Tis time I seek my own bed, Sir Everard. Good eve.”
“Baron?”
“Aye?”
“There is one more thing I would tell regarding my sister. She is not Beatrix—in face, figure, or demeanor.”
“’Tis as I have heard told.”
“I thought you might have.” Everard widened his stance. “Still, if you are disappointed when you m
eet her, I pray you will compose yourself so as not to make your feelings known.”
Rancor rising, Christian said, “You make her sound uncomely, Sir Everard—hardly what one expects from a woman’s own brother.”
The knight’s face darkened. “I did not mean to imply my sister is not attractive. My intent was simply to prepare you for one who does not possess the beauty and brightness of Beatrix for which men yearn when they hold Gaenor up against her sister.”
Beatrix was breathtakingly lovely. Still, Christian had felt little more than concern for her when she had been brought to Broehne Castle barely alive, and grudging admiration when she proved herself innocent of murder. It was different with Gaenor, though he had yet to understand the stirrings felt in her presence that did not seem merely born of desire.
“Of greater hindrance,” Sir Everard continued in a slightly more genial voice, “is our oldest sister’s ungainly height, which most men find intolerable. Thus, I need not tell you the Godsend it seemed when I met you. Being of a height yourself, Gaenor’s size can present no problem.”
“A Godsend,” Christian murmured, then said, “I thank you for preparing me for our meeting, but you need not worry I will be disappointed, nor that I will allow anything of the sort to reflect upon my face. I am resolved to this marriage, and not grudgingly. Thus, not only will our families have peace, but Lady Gaenor and I are certain to find a fit pleasing to us both.”
“I take comfort in that, Baron Lavonne.”
Christian looked past the knight and watched as yet another torch was extinguished. Two more and it might prove difficult to negotiate the floor that was fast filling with pages and squires. “Good eve, Sir Everard.”
By the light of the single torch set between two men-at-arms posted as sentries, Christian forged a path among the pallets and those sprawled upon them. Shortly, he climbed the stairs and strode the corridor to his chamber. At the door, he paused to consider the chapel that was set in the far bend of the corridor.
She would not be there now, but on the morrow…
CHAPTER SIX
He had not come. He had said he would, but for more than an hour she had sat on the bench waiting for him. Had her eagerness to meet again frightened him away? Like her, he was also betrothed.
With an unutterable sense of loss, Gaenor looked to the altar as she rose to her feet. Though she knew she ought to be grateful the knight had not returned, for it was folly for them to continue to meet when her lot was already cast, resentment welled.
She looked heavenward. “You did this,” she whispered, only to squeeze her eyes closed and beg forgiveness. After all, if God was responsible, all He had done was remove temptation—and further heartache. It was for the best. And she must try to be grateful.
In her chamber abovestairs, she closed the door and considered what had become nearly her entire existence these past months. So still. So quiet. So alone. Silence that screamed.
Swallowing to keep emotion from her lips and eyes, she crossed to the bedside table and looked from the embroidered bodice begun too many months past, to the psalter that garnered the least of her attention, to the window that knew her best and from which she watched the days and nights slowly accumulate one atop the other.
She took a step toward the latter, only to turn back and snatch up her psalter. Surely a psalm would offer comfort from this restlessness…this roiling…this terrible yearning for something beyond her reach.
But it was not easy to find relief in the small book, for tucked inside the front cover was a folded piece of parchment that protruded just enough to make it impossible to ignore. She fingered its edges and once more vowed she would burn it. Soon.
“Well done, Baron!”
Perspiration causing his tunic to cling shoulders to hips, Christian stared between met swords into Sir Everard’s eyes.
“Well done,” the knight said again, then slid his sword off Christian’s and sheathed it.
Christian returned his own sword to its scabbard. As he did so, the ruby set in the hilt glinted in the light that slipped through the canopy of leaves. He frowned, only then realizing how much the sky had lightened since he and Sir Everard had entered the wood in the dark of earliest morn. And with that realization came another—Gaenor waited for him, though perhaps no longer.
How many hours had passed since Sir Everard had roused him from his bed and announced they would apply to the wood what had been taught in the darkened cellar? Two? Three? It had to be, and yet it had seemed hardly an hour, so intent had he been on tracking and engaging his opponent. Without the burdensome weight and din of chain mail, the exercise had been exhilarating—a contest of stealth, determination, and will that made him feel young and almost reckless. Unfortunately, it had likely cost him a meeting with Gaenor.
“I am pleased with your progress,” Sir Everard said.
“As I am pleased with your instruction. ‘Tis far more than I expected.”
“Such is the reputation that Wulfen Castle was built upon.”
“A well-earned reputation. We are done?”
“For now.” Sir Everard wiped a forearm across his brow. “Methinks on the morrow we shall address how well you perform in the saddle.” He turned away.
With long strides, Christian drew alongside the knight. “I did not know my horsemanship was in question.”
“Only with regards to how well you swing a sword and handle a lance from atop your mount.”
“You are proposing I tilt at a quintain?” Were it so, it would be difficult to not take offense, for he had mastered the training device years past.
Sir Everard raised an eyebrow. “If necessary, the quintain, though I had assumed you were skilled at it.”
“I am.”
“Then we shall tilt at one another.”
They did not speak again as they left the wood and strode the meadow toward the castle. Thus, Christian’s thoughts turned to whether it was possible Gaenor would wait for him. From the sun’s position in the east, it was not likely. Still, upon entering the donjon, he went to the chapel. Though not empty as expected, the one within was not the one he sought.
The priest looked up from where he knelt before the altar and quickly covered his surprise at seeing Christian in the doorway. Starting to rise, he asked, “You seek prayer, my son?”
Christian held up a hand. “Nay, Father. Forgive me for interrupting your time with God.” He pulled the door closed. Grudgingly accepting he would have to wait until the morrow, he started toward his chamber. And paused.
He looked over his shoulder down the corridor that ran shorter than the one upon which his own chamber was situated. There were only two doors, but one might belong to Lady Gaenor. And then there was the winding stair at the far end. Might her chamber be in the corner tower?
Remembering when she had told of having watched him at training in the field before the wood, he determined it had to be so, for she would require such a vantage point to see beyond the walls. Too, a tower room would afford her more privacy and make it easier to guard.
That last made him frown, until he reminded himself she’d had no escort when she ventured to the chapel. Though during her first months at Wulfen she must have been kept well under guard, with all that had passed, such measures would no longer be necessary.
Though his belly groaned, there having been no time to break his fast this morn, he moved down the corridor toward the stairs. With each step, he listened for the sound of someone upon them, but it was silent. Twice, the stairs turned upward, and at the first landing was a single door.
Christian looked from it to the next turning of the stairs that led to the tower’s roof. Light filtered down from above, evidence that the door overhead had been thrown wide. Was Gaenor up there?
He took the winding stairs two at a time. The light grew brighter and, shortly, he saw sky ahead where the door in the tower roof had been laid back. Hoping he would find Gaenor there, and not another to whom he would have to fabricate a re
ason for his trespass, he continued upward.
“Do not think I do not appreciate your lack of stealth,” Gaenor’s voice welcomed him in advance of his appearance.
He stepped up through the hatch, and there she sat with her back against the wall. But she did not see him, her attention turned to the tugging of her skirts down her legs—shapely legs absent hose.
“Had you not taken such pains to alert me,” she continued, “I fear you would have found your sister a most wanton sight with her gown down about her shoulders”—she looked up—“and…”
Her eyes widened and smile dissolved.
From where Christian had halted two stairs down from stepping onto the roof, he stared at her. Gaenor was pretty. Though most women appeared at their best in dim light that hid their flaws, it did a disservice to the woman before him.
Day’s light crowned her bare head, turned through and lightened her dark blonde hair, brushed the tips of her lashes, sparkled in her brown eyes, and fondly touched the bow of her upper lip. Sunlight became her.
“Sir Matthew, I thought you were my brother, Everard.”
“My apologies, Lady Gaenor. I did not intend to startle you.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Keeping our meeting.”
“But our meeting was some hours ago. And you did not come.”
“My delay was unavoidable. Could I have sent word, I would have.”
Her lids narrowed. “What kept you?”
“Your brother took me to the wood ere dawn that I might demonstrate my ability to detect sound amidst silence.”
She lowered her gaze over him. “Only now you are returning?”
“Aye, my lady.” He looked down and grimaced at the state of his tunic that bore evidence of his contest in the wood. “When I found you absent from the chapel, I determined to seek you out.”
“You should not have.”
“And have you, the whole day, believe me incapable of keeping my word?”
A smile crept back onto her lips. “I did think that.”
