The Redeeming: Book Three (Age of Faith)

by Tamara Leigh

  I long to see you, dear sister. Until that blessed day, take heart in knowing your name is fast on my lips when I kneel before God. Be strong, be patient, be forgiving. Above all, trust in the Lord. ~Beatrix D’Arci

  Gaenor swept a thumb across her sister’s name. She tried to be all those things that Beatrix advised, and yet there was no day she did not ache though surely she ought to be trusting in—and praising—the Lord. After all, her loved ones were well, no king’s displeasure had they suffered for her foolishness, Christian had not cast her aside as had been his right, her belly did not ache unto death for lack of sustenance, the castle folk were beginning to accept her, no lives had been lost in the fires set by the brigands, her husband and brother had once more returned without injury, and the man who had good cause not to trust her had told he would be the first to believe.

  “You are troubled by your sister’s tidings?” Christian’s voice carried across the solar.

  Gaenor looked around, and her pulse quickened at the sight of his glistening shoulders and wet, disheveled hair that revealed far more time had passed than was felt.

  With difficulty, she retrieved his question and wondered how to answer him. Truthfully, she decided. All was told, and though she knew he might doubt her, she had nothing to hide. Straightening her bowed shoulders, she said, “Beatrix has guessed we met at Wulfen.”

  Christian narrowed his lids. “Merely because I trained there?”

  “There is that, but methinks she would not have come upon it had I not spoken of you—of Sir Matthew.”

  “When?”

  She stood, turned to the table, and began to fold the missive on the smooth surface. “At her wedding celebration, she asked if there was someone I would rather wed than the man to whom King Henry had given me.”

  Silence.

  She folded the missive one last time. “I told her I hardly knew the knight I had met at Wulfen, certainly not enough to wish marriage, but…” She shrugged, retrieved her psalter, and fit Beatrix’s missive atop her mother’s.

  “And yet that eve you fled with Sir Durand.”

  Psalter in hand, she turned to Christian. “I have already explained that.”

  His gaze dropped to the psalter. “Tell me again.”

  How many times must she—?

  Bend, Gaenor. Bend or you will both break.

  “As I believed Sir Matthew was lost to me, I chose a man who did not love me over a man who was told to have ill-used my sister. And that is all there is to tell. I know you do not like it since you are determined to believe ‘twas then I yielded up my virtue, but you have only to think upon my reason for fleeing to understand why I did it.”

  His gaze returned to hers. “I understand.”

  Her heart tensed as if to leap, but she knew better than to yield to joy that could so easily be mocked. “That is not enough, though, is it?”

  “I said I would be the first to believe, Gaenor, but I struggle over Sir Durand who stands between us as surely as he lies between the pages of your psalter.”

  She glanced at the book, and it was on her tongue to question him when realization struck. Sir Durand had been there. But she had burned his missive the day it had come into Broehne. “I do not understand.”

  “Do not lie to me.” He raised his bulk from the tub. “I have seen it, Gaenor.”

  And I see you, though I should look away, but I will not cower or act the coy maiden after all I have undertaken to claim my right as your wife and lady of the castle.

  She stood taller and was grateful for the height that had been a burden much of her life. “I know you speak of Sir Durand’s missive,” she said as Christian advanced on her, “and I do not deny having been in receipt of it. What I do not understand is how you know of it.”

  He yanked his robe from the hook on the bed’s corner post and, as he took the last strides to where she stood, shoved his arms into the sleeves.

  “I saw it at Wulfen.” He halted before her and, eyes fast upon her face, tightened the robe’s belt.

  Gaenor shook her head. “How? When?”

  “After I met you on the roof, when I returned your slippers to your chamber.”

  She remembered. It had taken her breath away to find her slippers on the chest and know he had been within, but it had not occurred to her he might have trespassed further. “You had no right.”

  “I did not, nor was it my intent, but when I saw your psalter, I was compelled to read what you had read. Truly, I did not expect to find any but God’s words within, but Sir Durand’s were also there.”

  “And still you think his words are here.” She lifted the psalter between them.

  His jaw tensed. “I have seen the parchment that protrudes from between the covers.”

  Imagining how it must have chafed—indeed, angered—him to see the book beside their bed, she felt sympathy stir across her resentment. “You have seen wrong, Husband.”

  His nostrils flared. “Gaenor, pray do not—”

  “Look.” She pressed the psalter to his chest. When he took it, she stepped back and lowered to the mattress edge.

  It did not take long for him to discover that Sir Durand’s missive had been supplanted. He closed the psalter. “’Twas your mother’s missive I saw.”

  “Aye. And now will you ask where I have hidden my lover’s?” Instantly, she regretted the bitter words that would bring her no nearer her sister’s prayers for her.

  Why can I not be more like you, Beatrix? Forgiving and eager to trust in the Lord?

  Christian set the psalter on the table, slid a hand beneath Gaenor’s chin, and lifted her gaze to his. “I have been laboring under false belief, and I am sorry that you were also made to bear its weight.”

  His sincerity and regret, met with his gentle touch, caused a shiver to course her spine. “The day my chest was delivered,” she said, “I burned his missive, for it no longer held meaning for me and I did not wish it to come between us. Will you believe me?”

  “I do.” His words surprised her, and she was more surprised when he knelt and cupped her face in his hands. “Forgive me?”

  Joy again, knocking on her breast in the hope she would swing the door wide. Tears stinging her eyes and nose, she said, “Aye. And you? I did not come to you a maiden, Christian.”

  Though she sensed his struggle, he did not tarry in throwing it off. “There is naught to forgive.” He slid a hand around her neck and drew her head down.

  Their lips met, and the kiss was as sweet as the one they had shared at Wulfen before the riders had come to take him from her. Remembering, Gaenor opened her eyes and pulled back. “The stream at Wulfen—the missive is why you were so cool toward me when I came upon you.”

  His lids lifted to reveal gold-flecked brown eyes that she did not think she would ever tire of feeling move upon her. “I thought you meant to use me to get to the man you loved.”

  She laid a palm to his chest. “If I used you at all, ‘twas to store up a moment of happiness to last me all the days I would be bound to my family’s enemy.”

  “I am not your enemy.” He urged her head down and said against her lips, “Never your enemy.”

  His kiss was deep, thrilling, and ripe with promises she had thought never to be kept. However, when he eased her back on the bed, she returned to the last time they had been so near. “Christian?”

  “My lady?” his voice rumbled from the hollow of her neck.

  “If you will regret this—wish you had waited until after my menses—pray, stop.”

  He raised his head. As he searched her face, she knew that though Sir Durand was no longer between the pages of her psalter, still he remained between Christian and her, even if it was only a shadow he threw. “When I kiss you…touch you…is it me you see, Gaenor?”

  Though his question made her ache, she could not fault him for wondering, for the man to whom she had given her virtue had not seen her. “I see only you, Christian, just as mine is the only name upon your lips.”
r />   His frown was fleeting, but by it she knew he understood what need not be spoken. “Never will I regret this,” he said, his breath warming her face, “for you are mine. And any child you bear will be ours.”

  It frightened her to embrace his declaration, but she did. And opened her arms to him.

  “What is this?”

  Wishing obligation away that she and Christian might linger abed, Gaenor turned onto her back and smiled at her husband where he stood before his chest, a garment in hand. “’Tis a tunic befitting a baron, do you not think?”

  His gaze lingered on her face, then he looked back at the moss green fabric. “Made by your hand?” He fingered the neckline embroidered around with oak leaves.

  “Aye, mine.”

  “Why?”

  She raised herself onto her elbows. “I wished to believe you as you believe me, though I must tell that Sir Hector aided in confirming you are not the same as your father or brothers. Too, he assured me that whatever you told of the bargain struck with Garr for Beatrix, I ought to believe. I do, Christian. And I am sorry for thinking ill of you.”

  His smile was almost pained. “I gave you good cause.”

  “’Tis behind us.”

  He nodded.

  “You like the tunic?”

  “It is wonderfully worked, but I favor it more because it was made by you.”

  Her heart twinged, and she imagined the beautiful crack that had opened in it to let in love. “Pray,” she beseeched, “put it on that I might know it fits proper.”

  He retrieved an undertunic, donned it, and pulled her gift over it. “Never have I worn such fine cloth,” he said as he came around the side of the bed.

  “You ought to. Are you not the baron of Abingdale?”

  A frown passed over his face and, almost to himself, he said, “I was not meant to be. And should not have been.”

  Sensing something restless within him, Gaenor gripped his hand. “But you are, and because you are worthy, no longer are your people made to suffer the discord between our families.”

  His laugh was forced. “Now they suffer worse—the discord within one family.”

  As told by the raids on villages and the burning of crops. “You will bring the brigands to ground.” She held his gaze. “I am sure of it.”

  After a long moment, he said, “God willing, I shall.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Abel brooded, as he had done often this past sennight since Christian’s suspension of the search for the brigands. He knew the need to protect the crops until the harvest was done, for much of the survival of Abingdale’s people was dependent on the grain sustaining them through winter. Still, it was obvious where his thoughts lay, and never more so than when John was underfoot.

  Gaenor knew of the encounter between her brother and the boy’s mother, but she sensed something deeper there that Abel was not telling—allowing glimpses of it in the acts of ruffling the boy’s hair or slinging him onto his back when John’s legs tired of keeping pace with the reach of Abel’s. And now, perhaps, this. Not that Abel didn’t bow his head during the blessing of meals or attend mass on occasion, but she did not know him to be one to seek the Lord on his own as it appeared he did where he knelt before the altar.

  Clasping her hands before her, she settled in to wait for however long it took him and God to conclude their business.

  It took quite some time, and when Abel finally stood, he did so with a heavy sigh. He turned and met her gaze where she stood on the chapel’s threshold. “I thought it was you.”

  “And I thought you too deep in prayer to know you were not alone.”

  His mouth forming a semblance of a smile, he strode forward. “Though methinks it does not please God that I divide my attention between Him and my present surroundings, I long ago learned not to leave myself open for attack—whether in a chapel or my own chamber.”

  He referred to his short-lived marriage to the woman who had turned a dagger on him in their bed. “’Tis wise.”

  “It serves.” He halted before her, leaned in, and kissed her cheek. “Especially in my case, eh?”

  When he drew back and his eyes told that he had moved past her, even if only in thought, she laid a hand on his arm. “Abel?”

  “Aye?”

  “You are fond of John.”

  He frowned. “As I would be of any dog that so faithfully followed me hither and yon.”

  She shook her head. “I think not. Just as I think you are too preoccupied with the brigands’ whereabouts.”

  The grooves in his handsome face deepened. “You know I will not resume my duties at Wulfen until I am certain Robert and Aldous can do you no harm.”

  “Aye. Still, it seems more to me.”

  The emotions that skimmed his face evidenced he was not inclined to indulge her, but he said, “Speak.”

  She set her shoulders and, recalling what Aimee had told of the healer’s comeliness, said, “I cannot help but think you were affected by your meeting with John’s mother.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Affected in the same way you are affected by Christian Lavonne?”

  Remembering the night past when she lay in her husband’s arms, she felt her cheeks warm. “You were most distressed that you could not free her.”

  “If I feel anything for Helene of Tippet, it is remorse at being thwarted in my attempt to reunite her with her son who suffered much when she was taken from him.”

  Gaenor frowned. “John has spoken of that day?”

  “Just enough that I better understand his behavior when he was brought to Broehne.”

  “Then he was present when the brigands took Helene.”

  Abel inclined his head. “They came in the middling of night, forced their way into her home, and struck her down when she fought them. John is angered that he was too frightened to aid her.”

  “But he is only five.”

  “Of which he does not care to be reminded.” Abel drew a deep breath. “So you see, my sole concern for the healer is that she be restored to her son.”

  She put her head to the side, considered him, then dared as she had never dared with Abel. “Or so you tell yourself.”

  Color suffused his face. “That is enough!” he snapped, but rather than loose angry words that were surely fast upon his tongue, he momentarily closed his eyes. “I am pleased that you and your husband seem reconciled to one another,” he finally spoke, “but you err in thinking I suffer the same hazards of the heart. I train boys into men worthy of fighting for family, country, and king. That is my life.”

  “It could be more.” She groaned inwardly at the words that sounded more like a plea than a suggestion.

  He glowered. “Lest you forget, I had more once, and it was far enough to last me ‘til my end days.”

  The long months when he had been husband to a wife whose mind was not her own. Gaenor sighed. “I am sorry. I just—”

  “Sir Knight?” a small voice called.

  Abel peered past her and smiled wryly. “’Tis for him I seek to free Helene of Tippet.”

  As Gaenor turned, John’s deceptively long shadow slipped across the threshold and ran up her skirts.

  He skidded to a halt and looked between her and Abel. “My lady,” he allowed, his behavior sharply contrasting with the boy who had attacked her when he had first come to Broehne. Not surprisingly, Abel’s influence had been of good benefit to him, further evidence that her brother excelled at training up knights.

  Gaenor smiled. “Good day, John.”

  “I…” He shifted from one foot to the other. “Sir Abel said he would make me a wooden sword if I rose early and washed my face and hands.” He put his chin up and presented his palms. “I did. See?”

  “I see,” she said. “And very clean you are. I am certain my brother will make you a fine sword.”

  The boy drew a breath that, on its exhale, shuddered with excitement. “I am ready, Sir Knight.”

  Abel stepped forward. “As am I.” />
  As the boy whooped and swung away, Abel grumbled in passing, “’Tis not as if there is much else to do while we await the harvest.”

  Gaenor watched him cross the threshold, then turned her back to him and John. There were prayers that needed praying, and though she knew as her mother oft told that a house of God was not required to speak with the Lord, it was easier here in the chapel where the distractions were fewer.

  Shortly, she knelt where her brother had knelt, but as she clasped her hands, a mild cramp gripped her. She opened her eyes and stared at the altar until it lost focus and another cramp turned inside. Was it her belly whence it came? Or her womb? Most likely the latter.

  She dropped her chin and let out a breath so long and shuddering she might have been holding it a fortnight. But then, in a way she had—ever since the consummation of her marriage. As cramping usually preceded her menses, within a day her husband would likely be assured that she bore no other man’s babe.

  Gaenor felt such relief that no child of hers would suffer doubt about its parentage that she thought she might cry.

  “Thank you, Lord,” she said with trembling lips that turned toward a smile. However, in the next instant, the expression dropped from her mouth. The blessing she had been granted was not all blessing, for it also meant she did not carry Christian’s child.

  “Not yet,” she tried to reason away the sense of loss that hovered as if in search of a place to settle. “Truly, I am pleased.”

  For now. What if next month brings the same, and the month after? What if you never bear children, if your womb remains forever empty for the sin of having lain with Durand? ‘Twill not be much of a blessing, will it?

  “I will bear children,” she breathed. “But this is for the best.”

  Is it?

  Feeling as if caught up in a melee between reasoning and emotion, she sank back on her heels and pressed her palms to her face. “For the best,” she said more forcefully, though still her voice barely ascended beyond a whisper. The next time she said it, it came out on a sob.