Betrothed

by Lori Snow

  Betrothed

  Lori Snow

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Lori Snow, 2014

  All rights reserved. With the exception of short excerpts used in articles and critical reviews, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in any form whatsoever, printed or electronic, without prior written permission of the copyright holder.

  Edited by Julia Blaine and Gayle Heston

  Cover art by James Schardt

  Lori Snow is now in Heaven, a place that, for her, probably looks a lot like Vermont. Her long, long, long blond hair must make her a beautiful angel.

  She had just finished writing Betrothed.

  Lori’s sister, Leanna, and her friends Gayle Heston and Julia Blaine, want to help share her story. Generous, talented and creative, Lori was always ready to help us.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  About the Author

  C hapter 1

  1322 Manor d’Olivet

  Everyone in Christendom knew the black and gold Bennington colors, lest they court the wrath of the second Earl of Bennington, Donovan d’Allyonshire. Anyone with a shred of self-preservation knew not to accost one riding under his pennant. Even the least of his men rode with the warrior’s protection. The young messenger sitting in front of Isabeau d’Olivet had been able to travel the countryside with impunity.

  And therein lay the crux of Isabeau’s plan.

  She now had the exact details and skill to duplicate the Bennington livery. The difficulty would be in finding time to complete her task without discovery. Her time was running out.

  “Is the table as thirsty as me?” squawked the messenger.

  The complaint jolted Isabeau out of her reverie. She righted the jug before losing more than a few drops of cider.

  Isabeau needed information more than a drink. She wanted to stay and talk. To hear the tales the boy had to tell of the great and honorable Donovan. But she couldn’t spend time indulging her curiosity. She needed specifics on what others would expect from a messenger of Castle Bennington.

  “How long before you return to Bennington?”

  Malak, the courier, tilted his head.

  Isabeau skipped a couple of heartbeats before he shrugged nonchalantly.

  “I am to go to Montrose Keep next, but I don’t leave ‘til morn.”

  Chewing her lip, she made a decision she wouldn’t have hesitated to make while her father still lived. “A chamber in the west tower will be prepared for your use. The distance to Montrose is not far. Do you think two days of rations will suffice?”

  “Milady?” Malak raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Is it allowed?” He’d expected to bed down in the grand hall with the rest of the general household.

  “You are the earl’s emissary,” she explained. “You should be treated as such. If you need anything more, tell Marly in the kitchen. She will see to everything.”

  Isabeau thought it prudent to change the subject before she changed her mind. Neither Simon nor his wife took notice of the workings of Olivet unless it interfered with their own comfort, but if they thought she was taking liberties, swift and painful consequences would follow.

  “What news did you bring from his lordship to Lord Simon?” She watched the expressive freckled face.

  His red brows drew together under his fringe of ginger hair in a grimace. “If His lordship wished to send his missives with gossips he would employ the cackling hens found in the kitchens,” the youthful voice scolded with a hint of arrogance. He lost his ferocity when his voice cracked. “That’s what was said to me when I was given my duties.”

  “You don’t have many years. Have you long been his lordship’s courier, Malak?” She waited while he swallowed a bit of crusty bread.

  “Just since he’s been back from the battlefield. ‘Afore that, I had to learn to read.”

  Isabeau nearly dropped the knife in surprise. “You can read?”

  Malak puffed out his chest arrogantly. “My lord said that no man should be entrusted with that which he can’t understand if need be. Mind you, some messages are only meant for the rec---re…”

  “Recipient?” She supplied the word for him.

  “Aye, the recipient. The earl also knows that scribes may not always be available to prepare replies. Not only do I got a good memory, but I can take the dictates of replies.”

  The boy had reason to be proud of his accomplishments. Few people acquired such skill. Isabeau’s brother had stopped all lessons at Olivet. Simon claimed the effort to teach and learn was a waste of valuable time and labor.

  “How old are you?” She felt her cheeks warm at his sudden interest

  Malek gave her his full attention as a smile curled his lips. “I’m old enough.”

  A wooden bowl thudded on the table between them “Now, you be showing Lady Isabeau her proper respect,” Old Blanche scolded in her raspy voice.

  Isabeau jumped at the interruption. She had been unaware of Blanche’s entrance into the hall.

  The grin faded from the teenager as he tried to stand. “Beggin’ your pardon, milady. I wasn’t meaning nothin’.”

  Isabeau tipped her head towards the old woman. “There is no need to scare the boy. He did nothing wrong.”

  Blanche wagged her head on her scrawny neck, wisps of her thin gray hair waving her disapproval from under her dust-cap. “And you bein’ encouragin’. Hadn’t ye best be lookin’ after yer own business? Marly in the kitchen kin take ker of the earl’s lad. Ye best be on yer way. Lord Simon is about…”

  Isabeau’d not garner more information about Lord Donovan this day. She hoped she had what she needed. She looked over her shoulder as she scurried toward the kitchens. The best way to deal with Simon was to avoid him.

  To be in his sight was to remind him of her existence and his grievances. Whether her transgressions were real or imagined, he found a way to punish her. Since her father’s death, life at Olivet had become a torment.

  Simon exhibited none of their father’s high chivalric mores and his few guests behaved in a barbaric manner. Lord Kirney had ogled Isabeau’s bosom upon his last visit, making her skin crawl. She didn’t understand all of his comments, but she knew they were vulgar. He seemed pleased when she looked puzzled. His smile and the light in his eyes followed her into nightmares.

  What strange conduct for a man reputed to be so close to the king. Why, Kirney was even cousin to the earl, the liege lord
over them all. Could it be because Lord Kirney had been guardian to Syllba before Simon took her to wife? Would those connections give him reason to think he need not behave in a courtly manner?

  Isabeau shook her head whenever she thought of Kirney -- which she tried to avoid doing. She would just keep away from the man as much as possible.

  In the kitchens, the preparations for the evening meal proceeded nicely with few grumbles. If the servants lacked the exuberant camaraderie of her father’s time, she tried to ignore the loss. With a last glance around the room, she slipped out the door. Isabeau was almost to the weavers’ shed when Arneau, her brother’s lackey, intercepted her.

  “His Lordship be wishing to see ya in his counting room, milady.”

  She nodded, stepping away from the short round man. “I will be right there, Arneau. I just need to check on the weavers.” She wanted to check on the supply of dried goldenrod as well. The correct hue was all important for a successful disguise.

  The man moved his foot and his protruding belly, halting Isabeau. “Now ’twould be best,” he warned in sharp tones.

  A wave of fear seized her from head to toe. Had Simon already discovered she had given the guest chamber to Malek? She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. She was an Olivet, not a coward.

  She took a calming breath. “You say Lord Simon is in his counting room?”

  “Yes, milady.”

  Isabeau reversed her direction, doggedly placing one foot in front of the other. Avoiding Simon’s summons only made the punishments worse.

  How many times had the temptation to run reared its head? How many times had futility killed the idea? To affect a successful escape, she needed to stick to her plan.

  As she knocked on the door, waiting for his voice, a trickle of cold sweat slid down Isabeau’s spine. If Simon had already left, the beating would be worse when he found her later.

  “Come!”

  Isabeau entered and closed the door behind her. To leave it open would encourage Simon’s verbal taunts.

  “It took your lazy self long enough to get here. Wasting time in the solarium with one of the old man’s books?”

  “No, my lord. I was seeing to the comfort of the earl’s man.”

  “The earl’s man?”

  For a moment, Isabeau thought she saw fear in her brother’s eyes, but the expression quickly passed.

  “Oh, you speak of that little whelp. Waste of time. Not when we have company coming.”

  “Company?” A glimmer of excitement quickened Isabeau’s heart. “Is the earl to arrive?” Forgetting her new place in the household, she began to review the preparations for receiving an important personage.

  A stinging blow across her shoulder blades recalled her attention. Luckily, she caught her balance before she pitched forward to her knees. Why hadn’t she noticed the riding crop in Simon’s right hand?

  “My lord?” She gulped back a sob.

  “You forget you place, little sister.”

  Isabeau shivered at Simon’s echo of her own thoughts.

  “I’m sorry, my lord.”

  “Now, I want you to see that the best rooms in the east wing as well as the solarium are prepared for our guests.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Don’t you even want to know who will visit, Little Izzy?”

  She hesitated and another strike landed on her back. She bit back the cry before correcting her error. Any answer would have been wrong. “Yes, my lord. Who is coming to visit, my lord?”

  “Why, it is your beloved friend, Lord Kirney. He will be staying at Olivet Manor a few days while we finalize our alliance.” Simon traced the edge of her jaw with the tip of the crop. “And this time,” he warned, “This time you will show him proper courtesy. You will personally serve him his meals. You will accept his compliments. And, you will tend his every need and comfort. Do you comprehend?” The crop traced the line of her throat and shoulder.

  Isabeau swallowed back bile. “Yes, my lord.”

  “His every need and comfort, little Izzy.”

  “Yes, I understand, my lord.” And she was very much afraid she did. “When will he arrive, my lord?”

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  Wavering, Simon stepped back. “Well, get on with your duties. You have much work to do.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Isabeau didn’t wait for another reminder or another blow. She scampered from the room. By his look, Simon wanted to beat her into the floor—again. What stopped him?

  Suddenly, she was more afraid of not getting a beating than if he had liberally peppered her back with bloody stripes.

  Isabeau knew she had run out of time.

  C hapter 2

  She ran to the kitchens, reviewed the menus with the cooks and the gamekeeper and ordered all of the mattresses in the east wing pounded and the bedclothes aired. Floors would be swept; fixtures dusted, hearths cleaned, fires laid for cool spring nights.

  When she had put everyone to work, she slipped away to her own room, small and dark with only a tiny window for light and fresh air. It contained a narrow cot, a small table and one chest. Since her father’s death, she no longer resided in the family wing but closer to the servants’ quarters.

  Now she had no time to retrieve dried flowers from the weavers’ shed or to dye the linen. She barely time to embroider golden embellishments for the black garments already stashed. All must be ready so she could work into the night. With luck and plenty of toil, she could be on her way before the sun rose.

  Opening her chest, she surveyed the rich colors of the skirts she no longer wore in the great hall. She loved the rainbow of garments she could not carry with her. The gown she searched had been her favorite, worn with pride and confidence as she played hostess for her widowed father. The color was the most important. She found it near the bottom.

  Ruthlessly, she rent its seams and smoothed out the panels. Once at her destination, there would not be the need for a vivid wardrobe. It was good she had grown accustomed to wearing drab gray and serviceable black

  Isabeau cut strips from the amber skirt, placed the cloth against the black livery and tacked it into place. There was no time for matching stitches, or for perfection. The Bennington livery must be recognizable from a distance. The disguise only had to last a two-day journey. Yet it couldn’t appear too shabby if she was truly a Bennington man. The earl apparently took pride in not only the skill of his people but in their appearance as well. She would take a needle and plenty of thread with her to make repair.

  Huddled over her needlework, she tried to remember the first time she realized she would need a disguise to affect her escape. Startled, Isabeau pricked her finger when she heard the bells marking the time. She hurried. She must arrive at the evening meal in time so as not to cause comment. Quickly she stashed her work out of sight. There was little chance her room would be searched in her absence but she didn’t want to leave any evidence for a casual inspection.

  Although she was late, she ran to the kitchens first. If Simon happened to choose to eat in the great hall, he would see her enter from the kitchens as if she had been readying the manor for the visitor.

  Stopping outside the door, she caught her breath and smoothed her hair with a shaky hand and then she slipped quietly into the organized chaos of the evening’s meal.

  Isabeau had gone no more than two steps when a raspy voice growled behind her.

  “Just where have you been, Missy?” Blanche tugged on Isabeau’s sleeve.

  “I have been seeing to the preparations for Simon’s guest. You know that.”

  “Do I? What I know is that you flitted from tower to stables, giving out lists of busy work that will surely raise the dust for ages. But of you, I see neither hide nor hair.”

  Isabeau looked steadily into the sharp gray eyes. “I have not left the manor grounds. There is much work to be done. Simon wants all to be perfection for his guest.”

  “And who might that be?”


  Isabeau’s voice trembled. “Lord Kirney.”

  Blanche stiffened and clutched at her crucifix. “That devil’s bastard is returning? Your lord father, bless his soul, would run that foul serpent through rather than have Olivet further defiled.

  “Simon seems to have grown quite fond of his lordship.” Isabeau shivered at the memory of Lord Kirney’s last visit. She had heard rumors, whispers—but they always stopped when she stepped within earshot. Decadence surrounded her brother, permeated the manor and thickened even more when the neighboring knight visited.

  Now Simon was planning something. The light in his eyes had a calculating look when he watched her. She realized he had begun to control his blows so as not to mar her face with bruises. Lord Kirney was behind the change in behavior.

  She would rather deal with the bruises than Kirney.

  “What have you been doing, child?” Blanche’s voice was laced with concern. “You haven’t been doin’ mischief, have ya?”

  “I assure you, I’ve done nothing wrong.” Isabeau touched the older woman’s worn cuff.

  “You know how much enjoyment Hisself gits from hurting you. ‘Tis a game he plays. He relishes his power by hurting those around him.

  “He needs to remind everyone that he is now the Lord of the Manor,” said Isabeau.

  “That he does.” Blanche nodded in agreement and then leaned closer. “But his real pleasure comes from hurting you.

  In her darkest moments, Isabeau imagined her brother hated her because of her birth. Why, she couldn’t fathom. As a female, she was no threat to the Olivet title. She had a dowry from her mother but everything else was entailed.

  Isabeau swallowed. “I don’t know what to do except...” She stopped her confession. She couldn’t involve Blanche in her plans in any way.

  Blanche slipped her arm around Isabeau’s waist and gave a quick squeeze. “I pray God will preserve us. For now, take your place in the great hall. This evenin’ Simon chooses to my lord us lessers with his company. “ ‘Twouldn’t do for him to think you dally in the kitchen to avoid him.