"Striking a child is your manner of correction?" she protested. "Please, my lord, look upon him and see how small he is, so frail and thin. You'll break him with your blows."
Geoffrey shook his head both to refuse her words and acknowledge the impossibility of being warden to both the woman and her son. "My lady, I find myself suspecting the only frailties and weaknesses he owns are the ones you've taught him to use."
He reached down and took Jocelyn by one of his thin arms. "Rise boy, and come with me. The morrow will ask much of you. It's time we both retired."
"Maman, stop him this instant!" Jocelyn screamed, clinging like a limpet to his dam. "How can you let him take me when you can see how I will be abused?"
"I cannot stop him," Lady Freyne said helplessly, her arms yet clinging to her child. Written on her face was her struggle between head and heart. Although one said she had no choice but to release her son, the other demanded she hold him tight.
Geoffrey lifted him from her embrace. The boy thrashed against his hold with astonishing vigor for one so close to death's door. As Geoff sent him on his feet Jocelyn's face twisted into a mean expression. "Maman, I think you love me no more, wanting me dead so you set your heart on that new babe of yours," he shrieked.
"Boy," Geoffrey roared, truly shocked at the way the child wounded the one who cared so for him. "Hold your tongue or feel my wrath."
Lady Freyne's control crumbled under her son's assault. "Nay Jocelyn, you cannot believe that. I will always love you.” She looked up at him, tears making steady tracks down cheeks. “My lord, do not take him from me while he thinks I love him no more," she begged.
"What is wrong with you, woman?" Geoffrey scolded, not certain who angered him more, the willful and disobedient child or the widow who had pampered her son until he'd lost his natural respect for a parent. "You refuse to bow before me, a man who is your guardian, yet you turn yourself into a quintain for this lad while he uses his words like a lance to send you spinning."
“You don’t understand,” she protested. "Mary save me, you cannot have him. Leave Jocelyn to me and take this new babe of mine in his stead, raising him as you will."
Martin gasped against the depth of the insult the widow did Crosswell's master, implying as she did that he would agree to steal what rightfully belonged to one child to give it to another. Geoffrey stiffened in outrage. His hand drew back in instinctual reaction to her slur. "Mind your tongue," he snarled.
"You'll not hit my mother," Jocelyn of Freyne warned quietly from Geoffrey's side, fighting to position himself between lord and lady.
The boy's protective movement defused Geoffrey’s rage then set a grain of hope in him. There might yet be the nubbin of a decent lad beneath what was rotten. Geoff glanced back at the boy's mother. Her face was colorless and her eyes filled with the realization of the wrong she’d done with her words, proving they spilled from her heart not her head.
"Never again say such a thing to me," he warned her.
The widow buried her face in her hands before she nodded her agreement.
Geoffrey turned, dragging the boy around with him, and started across the bailey and inner courtyard. Jocelyn resisted, making himself as much of a burden as he could without overtly defying his new master. "Walk or know the consequences for your behavior," Geoffrey snapped.
Although Jocelyn began immediately to bear his own weight, Geoffrey was startled by his harsh reaction to what was a child's normal trick. He sighed at himself, deciding he was overwrought. Aye, and not just by this day but the whole year past.
They climbed the stairs, the boy careful to keep pace. Geoffrey paused on the landing before the door. Here had Cecilia stood, looking for something in the yard. It was the first time since Maud's attack against them that his daughter had reached beyond her quiet world to seek out something. Why not him, who loved her so?
What right had he to scorn the widow for her fears over her son when he tortured himself over his daughter? Geoffrey glanced down at Jocelyn. The boy watched him in return, resentment and dislike written openly on his face. Why should he expect otherwise, when even his own daughter would have nothing to do with him?
Then Jocelyn's eyes narrowed, glimmers of rebellion clinging in his gaze. Geoffrey read the tale with ease. The pathway to this boy's heart would quickly be littered with traps and snares against his warden if the widow continued to interfere. And of course she would. From what he'd seen, he doubted she could stop herself.
In that case, it would have to be another man who coaxed this boy out from behind his shield of weakness and into the life he must live. But where would he find a man with the patience and time to train a backward boy? It would have to be someone impervious to resentment. Geoffrey smiled slightly as he identified just the man he needed. The morrow would see a messenger flying south along the road to Ashby manor. With a strong horse and decent weather, he’d have his response the day after.
"Come, boy," he said with a new gentleness in his tone, "you'll need to get what rest you can tonight. The morrow won't be an easy one for you." He led his now temporary burden across Crosswell's undecorated hall, up the spiraling stairs at the room's back and into his second-story living quarters.
Elyssa woke with a start, awaiting the wave of sickness that usually accompanied her first thought of the day. Her breath coalescing before her in a chilly cloud, she laid still and tense, ready to find a basin if need be. A cacophony of sounds assaulted her. Some she knew from her time at Nalder, like the dull, continuous clanging of smiths' hammers and the steady thud of hooves against beaten earth accompanied by the tug and groan of a cart. Others she recalled from the more pastoral eras of her life: the gentle cluck of a hunting chicken, a man calling out, asking name and business.
The minutes passed and her stomach did no more than suggest to her that it was empty. With a prayer that the babe in her would leave her in peace today, she welcomed hunger's dull grind only to realize she had no idea where in Crosswell she was. That’s because once her sobs started after the sheriff wrenched Jocelyn from her arms, they refused to cease until she finally surrendered to sleep. She could barely remember Clare leading her to this place, wherever it was.
If only she could forget yesterday’s events as easily. Tears tried to rise in her eyes, but there was no moisture left in her to feed them. Not only had the sheriff made it clear he would heed nothing she said regarding Jocelyn, he had gone to despise her fears, even daring to infer that she imagined her son had nearly died a dozen times.
Even worse, the sheriff had made good on his petty threat of retaliation by striking her son.
Not true, her conscience chided quietly. Elyssa couldn’t refuse its truth, not when Jocelyn had been unspeakably rude. She would have scolded him herself had she not been so overwrought and exhausted. Scolded aye, but struck him? Never. Her jaw firmed. Somewhere in the tale scribed in Maud's letter was the tool she needed to force Geoffrey FitzHenry to heed her. Whatever it was, she’d have to be swift in finding what she needed.
Straw crunched beneath her as she rolled onto her back. The movement set every muscle in her body to crying out in protest. A single rough woolen blanket atop her did its best to keep her warm, while another was spread beneath her, trying to protect her from the mattress such as it was. Instead of a solid ceiling above her, she stared up into a crisscrossed framework of sticks topped by a layer of thatch. The bundled reeds rustled with more life than could be accounted for by the wind.
Grimacing at the nasty sorts of creatures that were likely living in those bundled reeds, she struggled up onto her elbows, groaning at what even so slight a movement cost her. The hearth, a slab of stone about ten feet away from her toes, played host to a few paltry flames doing their best to consume the pile of sticks meant to feed them. Although it offered no heat, there was smoke aplenty. No doubt the smoke hole in the thatch was plugged by some creature’s nest. On the opposite side of the hearth was the door; Elyssa knew that because the sun outlined t
he gap between the door and its jamb. Even that sliver of light was enough to show her the floor was naught but hard, beaten earth and that time and dampness had stripped big patches of whitewash from the walls.
Near the hearth sat two stools and a tiny table pushed back against the far wall, the only other pieces of furniture in the chamber beside this bed. Atop the table lay Elyssa's green-and-yellow everyday wear, taken from her traveling basket, her stockings and shoes sitting beneath it. Her cloak hung from the clothes pole on the far wall, its hem brushing the top of their traveling basket.
God bless Clare.
Just then, the blanket beneath Elyssa rustled. A rat! She yelped and, as fast as her sore body would allow, flew to the table side. She shuddered in revulsion and looked around the dirty hovel for signs of the rodent.
"He takes my son and then subjects me to this? Mother of God, but the peasants at Freyne lived in better style than I will at Crosswell," she told the chamber. Somehow, someway, she would find the sheriff’s secret and bend him to her knee.
Even so little exposure to cold was more than she wanted. She dressed swiftly, tugging on gowns and cinching her belt around her waist. She dug in her purse for her comb, then dug deeper still. Beyond her prayer beads, she had only four silver pennies. Elyssa freed a disgusted breath. Why hadn't she thought to bring more coins with her? As soon as she could, she'd collect coins from Nalder's treasury and her mills, the dower from her marriage with Ramshaw as well. Aye, she need all the wealth she could gather to soften the atrocities her foul warden meant for her.
Fingers flying, she plaited her hair and donned her wimple. Once she was properly attired, she discovered that Clare had done more than set out her clothing. On the table stood a basin of water with a cloth for washing, a small loaf of thick bread, a sizable wedge of cheese, and a cup of watered wine. There was also a bowl of pottage. She and the babe found the bread and cheese tolerable, but not breakfast grain soup.
After she'd washed her hands and face, she made it her day's goal to find Crosswell's bathhouse and truly soak the dirt from her body. She pinned on her mantle, then grabbed up the water basin. Throwing open the door, she started to dispose of the water, only to grab back her motion so abruptly the water sloshed over her arm.
An old woman dressed in red was passing within arm's reach of Elyssa's door. The grandmother, her face as soft and wrinkled as a dried apple, limped along, a heavy sack over her bowed shoulders. A soldier in a boiled leather vest over a dark tunic and chausses pushed his elder aside. "Out of my way, old woman."
Striding past Elyssa's doorway, he exited Crosswell's inner gate and bumped shoulders with another on-comer, a man whose gray hood was pulled so low Elyssa couldn't see his face but his ink-stained fingers suggested he was a clerk.
Mary save her, this hovel was so close to the gate that every passing foot and hoof would send dirt and noise scattering into its interior. She closed the door behind her then walked around the cottage's corner. Chickens pecked and scratched at her new home’s back wall, which suggested it was a treasure trove for them.
Impulsively emptying the basin onto the unsuspecting fowl, sending them scattering in a flurry of squawks and feathers, she left the broad dish on its side to dry, then scanned Crosswell's bailey. Fortress or not, geese grazed alongside horses on the grassy open area, just as they might at any other place. Doves ascended and descended over one end of the field, suggesting there was a cote beyond her field of vision. Directly across the rutted pathway from the cottage stood a blank length of raised stone. The wall lacked the thickness given to defenses and was barely taller than most men. Extending from the inner wall into the bailey a short distance, it took a sharp turn. A garden?
Elyssa crossed the path and followed the abutting wall to where it was breached by a small gate. When she pushed open the wooden door, she smiled. Who would have believed it of such a rough-hewn place as Crosswell? Not just a garden, but a beautiful garden.
Protected from the wind, the enclosure was a bit warmer than the outside world. Two gravel pathways quartered the interior. The back left quadrant was hidden from her view by a tall hedge, its entrance a square cut from the greenery. The back right quarter was a kitchen garden, filled with neat lines of pot herbs and winter vegetables. The two front areas were yet carpeted by grass, retaining color despite the season. Beds, empty now for their winter's rest, swirled across the sod in sweet flights of fancy. Roses, dormant as well, were set between the espaliered fruit trees and grapevines that lined the inner walls. Some of the trees yet held tight to their dying foliage, making for bright splashes of color against dull stone.
She retreated, closing the gate behind her, then wandered to the garden's opposite corner and peered around it. Two long buildings stood here, one of them using the garden's wall as its own back support. Stables. Even with the stink of burning coal heavy in the air, her nose still told her this.
A paddock stood behind the second building, extending slightly forward so she could see one end of it. Instead of hurdles—the customary fencing made of uprights woven with supple willow branches—this enclosure was hemmed in by slats bound with leather thongs to thick posts. There was enough space between the slats for Elyssa to see that the ground inside the enclosure was torn and broken, churned up by many a hoof.
"Left hand!" a man shouted from behind the stable wall. "Come now. Cease this nonsense and do it."
A trotting pony appeared in the paddock heading straight for the fence line. In its saddle sat. . .Elyssa gasped. Jocelyn!
Her son wobbled on the saddle, then his feet flew free of the stirrups. He slipped to the side and dropped to the ground.
"Mother of God," Elyssa breathed in panic as she raced for enclosure, her gaze locked on her boy, who lay stunned and helpless and far too close to the creature's hooves. "Jocelyn!"
She tried to thrust herself through the slats of the fence, but her skirts tangled around her legs. A hand caught her by the upper arm and yanked her backward. She cried out in surprise and not a little fear; soldiers were no respecters of women, regardless of rank. Elyssa freed a breath of relief when she recognized the sheriff.
Today Lord Coudray had left off his mail and wore a short tunic of a deep blue color under a gray mantle. His legs were clad in brown chausses with boots of the same color. With his hood thrown back, the sun gleamed golden off his hair.
“This is no place for you," her warden said sharply as he dragged her away from the paddock. With her arm yet captive in his grip, she had no choice but to follow him.
"My son, he’s hurt," Elyssa cried out in protest, trying to dig her heels into the hard earth and hold her place.
"There are others to tend him now," her captor said in frigid reply.
When she continued to resist, he caught her around the waist. Pinned to his side, she had to keep her feet apace with his. His grip was almost painful. Elyssa looked up at him, ready to complain, only to think the better of it. He was staring straight ahead, the tense line of his jaw suggesting deep rage. Perhaps this was not the time to challenge him. If not now, when?
"My lord, I only wished to aid my son.”
He made no reply. The line of his fine profile was so hard it could have been carved from marble. He forced her past the garden wall and toward the cottage she'd just left. Did he mean to abuse her in private where he need not worry over interference?
They crossed the rutted pathway and barely paused before the hovel's door before he lifted his booted foot and kicked open the thick door. Dry and hard, the leather hinges cried as the wooden panel swung wide. He shoved her into the small chamber.
Elyssa stumbled across the room, righting herself as she caught the edge of the table. Behind her, the door slammed shut and the bar dropped. She snatched up the bowl of pottage and turned, ready to launch it at him. He was right in front of her. With a flick of his hand, the bowl flew from her fingers. It shattered on the hearth, the contents sizzling in the fire.
The urge to bend her
shoulders, to protect herself from the coming blows, rode her hard. Elyssa's back stiffened in protest. Never again. She was no man's wife now.
She launched herself over what had been her bed, but her feet slipped in the loose straw and she started to fall. Lord Coudray caught her by the waist and lifted her with ease. In the next moment, she found herself trapped against him, her back to his chest.
With a short and desperate cry, Elyssa strained against the arm around her waist. Her fist in her hand, she thrust her elbow toward his stomach. He caught her arm, preventing the blow. She lifted a foot.
"Do it and you'll rue this day for years to come." This was a low growl.
"Leave go," she shouted to hide the fact that his threat had set her foot back upon the ground. With her free hand, she tore at his arm around her.
"Cease, madam." His arm tightened until she could feel his belt's knot cut through the back of her gowns. "I am no more impressed with your bad manners than with your son's. How do you dare step between me and that boy after I commanded you away last night?"
"Damn you to hell, but you will free me," she said, her voice softening as defeat washed over her. She could do nothing for her son. Mary save her, she couldn't even protect herself.
Nay! She wouldn't give way to him. Her heart pounding in her throat, she arched away from him. "I do not recognize your right to command me away, not when my son is injured and needs me."
"Injured?" The man behind her freed a harsh laugh. With his mouth so near her ear, she felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek. "That boy’s not hurt, which is all the more astonishing considering how he throws himself from the saddle. This riding lesson had become a siege. I find myself wondering how bruised he'll allow himself to become before he decides it’s less painful to ride than to fall."
"Throws himself from the saddle?" Elyssa said in disbelief. "That cannot be. No one wants to fall from a horse."
His arm around her eased slightly, as did his hold on her elbow. A moment of silence passed, then another. His breathing calmed from that of rage to a more normal pace.
Autumn's Flame Page 9
