Betrothed

by Lori Snow

  She gave Isabeau a small push towards the great hall. Isabeau raced for the door. The rumble of many voices and the growls of hungry dogs assaulted her ears. She slowed before she crossed the sill and sedately edged into the room to take her place at the far end of the main table.

  Simon was already seated in the grand chair he had crafted after their father’s last illness. The chair to his left was smaller and empty as usual. Syllba, his wife, had never taken her place at the main table. The manor’s lady dined in her chambers.

  Simon had acquired the habit of resting his head beneath the carved floral cornet. The ornate carving on the tall back was perfectly situated to give the appearance of a crown sitting over Simon’s head.

  Of habit, Isabeau nibbled at her food and bit her tongue. She kept her chin lowered in subservience should Simon glance her way, but her eyes continuously scanned the room. All seemed orderly this eve.

  Low words spattered around the tables but she spoke to no one and no conversation was directed towards her. Over the months, all learned to avoid retribution. Her brother had succeeded in making her lonely in the midst of the crowd. She missed the camaraderie

  Isabeau sighed with relief when Simon pushed off his throne and made his way to the corner stair on unsteady feet. Dinner had passed without incident. When she heard a whispered “Praise God,” she realized she hadn’t been the only one with such worries.

  Immediately, the atmosphere lightened. Conversation became animated. Isabeau actually heard a peal of laughter come from a far table. Taking a final sip of the diluted wine Simon had decreed was suitable for her consumption, she stood and began to gather the leftovers.

  Isabeau glanced up in time to see a blonde serving girl quietly making a path along the west wall. The maid had almost reached the exit that led not towards the kitchen but to the side stairs.

  “Carrie?” Isabeau called softly.

  The girl jumped as if she had been struck and then froze, turning toward Isabeau.

  “Yes, milady?” Her mouth quivered before she answered.

  “Could you assist me?”

  “milady?” The girl’s voice broke.

  Isabeau gestured towards Simon’s pewter plate as she hefted a platter herself. “Help me carry the leavings to the kitchen.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, hoping Carrie would follow her. She worried about the fear in the girl’s voice. Isabeau didn’t remember Carrie being so timid or jumpy. When she had approached Dibble about sending his oldest daughter to the Manor for a kitchen maid’s position. The girl seemed willing and excited. No more tending the fields with her younger brothers. Of course now, the climate within Olivet Manor had changed.

  Isabeau sensed the girl following behind and gave a sigh. Lately, she never knew which of the Olivet people would ignore her instructions. Simon had made it plain that Isabeau no longer held

  She placed her burden on one of the dry sinks and waited for Carrie to follow suit.

  “How is your family? Are they well?”

  Isabeau saw Carrie’s blue eyes glitter. “They be fine.”

  “Oh. I just wondered, as I have not seen Dibble in quite sometime and he used to visit Smitty every Sunday eve. I don’t remember seeing your mother attending any church services for a couple of months.”

  Carrie opened her mouth and then snapped it shut. She licked her lips before speaking. “They have both been extremely busy with the spring tilling and sowing. Mama has had to help Poppa in the fields now that I am no longer there.”

  Isabeau had the distinct feeling Carrie wished to say something completely different. “When I offered you a place at the Manor, I had no idea that it would cause your family hardships. I would understand if you need to return to the cottage.”

  “No!” The denial exploded out of Carrie’s lungs as if she had endured a physical blow. Then she softened her voice to explain. “No. My brothers are growing into their chores and my mother is increasing again. There is no longer a place for me at the cottage.”

  “I see,” Isabeau answered -- though she didn’t understand at all. She could almost feel the girl shutting down. There were few options for a young woman in any station but was life at Olivet that much better than a small cottage with a loving family?

  Isabeau resisted the temptation to delve into the situation. She didn’t have time to break through the barriers Carrie had erected. “Grab a couple trays. The two of us can give Marley a hand at cleaning up after the horde. I am sure more of the tables have emptied.”

  “Yes, milady.” Carrie took two trays turned towards the great hall with a sigh. She shook her head and then returned to fulfilling her own goals. “Marley? Please see that a pack of food stuffs—enough for at least two days of healthy appetite—is prepared for the earl’s messenger. He has to leave before first light so if you could prepare the rations tonight he won’t be under foot in the morning.”

  Marley waved her plump hand from her place next to the hearth. “As you wish, milady.”

  Isabeau smiled and waved back. She had confidence that Marley would fit enough food in the pack to last a week. The woman had a soft spot for any male she considered a growing strap of a boy and Malak certainly fit that description. Some traits couldn’t be squelched by Simon’s tyranny.

  Entering the hall Isabeau could hear scattered pools of low conversation. The room was settling for the night. Several dogs nosed in the rushes seeking scraps. A small dog ambled down the center of a table sniffing and lapping for crumbs. Shrugging, Isabeau turned to find Carrie clearing the master table. Sliding passed her, Isabeau started at the far end, working towards the center. They reached Simon’s place when disaster struck.

  Tripping over one of the hounds, Isabeau bumped the wine jug. Unfortunately, it was the first meal in months in which Simon had failed to drain it in one setting. Isabeau grabbed for the vessel but unfortunately couldn’t prevent the puddle of red liquid from dripping to the rushes. Carrie scuttled to help mop up with a cloth she had tucked in her apron.

  “Damn you, Izzy!” Simon yelled from behind them. He’d returned to claim his wine.

  Both of the girls paled and twisted to face Simon.

  “You clumsy bitch. You wasted the good stuff.”

  Isabeau braced herself for the blow. She could see it in Simon’s eyes. She was already on her knees, a perfect target. She sucked in her breath and clamped her teeth as Simon raised his hand. She felt the rush of air as Simon’s hand sailed passed her cheek and found his target on Carrie’s jaw. The blow propelled Carrie to the floor.

  “Jesu! Simon, why? I was the one who spilled the wine.”

  Carrie’s trembling hand covered the reddening mark on her ashen face

  “Why?” Isabeau repeated. In her agitation, she didn’t remember to use the subservient address her brother preferred.

  Simon looked down at Isabeau, not bothering to conceal his hatred. “Because I can.” He pointed to Carrie. “You girl; I am sure Lady Syllba is waiting for ya.”

  He picked up the carafe and thrust it in Carrie’s direction. “Fill this on yer way.”

  Carrie grabbed the jug with her free hand, and stumbling to her feet, fled.

  He turned back to Isabeau. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. “I ought to strip you bare and flail your flesh from your useless hide for your insolence. You will learn your place.”

  Reflexively, her hands went to her head in an attempt to shield her scalp. He tugged twice and then unexpectedly released his grip. Isabeau was thrown off balance and fell to the dirty rushes.

  Simon kicked out at her—a glancing blow only--as he stomped from the hall. He continued to verbally curse. Why had he stopped?

  Shivering, Isabeau dropped onto the closest chair—the as yet unused lady’s throne. Simon’s restraint was more frightening than his rage. She dropped her face into her hands and muffled the sob. He had blatantly struck another for her misdeed.

  The people of Olivet would truly be better off since her pre
sence here only elicited Simon’s ire. If she had any doubts as to her course of action, they had been dispelled. She could no longer delay. She needed to get away from Olivet. With a strengthening breath she stood on legs that no longer shook. There was work to do.

  Avoiding any curious eyes, she made her way to the haven of her small room, sneaking a significant supply of tapers on the way. She wouldn’t be making the household inventory so hopefully the dip in stores would not be noticed until after her departure. She barred her door and set to work.

  Her eyes burned and she lost count of the number of times she stabbed her fingers with her needle. She sucked at the blood and returned to her stitching.

  She reminded herself repeatedly. She was doing the right thing. This plan was the only course of action. She had to leave Olivet; go to someone—some place— impervious to Simon’s retribution. A place she would be welcome and needed. For a woman, few options were available. For a woman of Isabeau’s station, there were even fewer. In fact, she had only one.

  The convent. She would take vows and serve God.

  There was some chance she would be turned away, but she had to take the gamble. She would be going against her legal guardian. Simon would have rejected the suggestion out of hand, had she approached him; even punished her for her audacity in asking. The deed must be a “fait accompli.”

  Once inside the stone walls of the convent, Simon could do nothing. Could he? Would he bother to petition the church for her return or would he wish her good riddance? Would he punish another for her absence?

  Isabeau closed her burning eyes against the fear. In the course of time, Simon would forget. Absent, she would cease to be a constant reminder of Simon’s hatred for her. She would pray daily for the bodies and souls of those left behind in Olivet Manor.

  Surely, as a bride of Christ, her prayers would lift swiftly to God’s ears.

  Lighting new tapers from the sputtering pool of the previous candles, Isabeau worked through the darkest hours of the night. She counted the bells as she tied the last knot. Rolling up the disguise, she hastily pushed it into her bag. She raced to retrieve foodstuffs from the kitchen before anyone stirred.

  It didn’t take long to find the food packet readied for Malak and pilfer half of its contents. Thankfully, her estimate of Marley’s generosity had been correct. The cook had packed enough food for a week, let alone two days. Isabeau and Malak would both have enough supplies for their travels. She added the bread, cheese and meat pies to her bag and snagged a wine skin as well.

  She heard Marley call out instructions for beginning the day’s bread as she slipped through the pre-dawn shadows to the stables. She needed to eat up the distance between her and Olivet as quickly as possible.

  Stealing a horse was a deadly offense but she knew an animal was necessary for the journey. Simon had made it clear that she owned nothing within the keep, not even the palfrey their father had gifted to her.

  What she was about to do could get her hanged.

  She recalled the shattered expression on Carrie’s white face and the red mark on her cheek. Isabeau shivered as she remembered the look in Lord Kirney’s eyes.

  In the stable, she hushed Meadowlark’s loud neighs of greeting. It had been weeks since Isabeau had the opportunity to mount her gentle creature. Neither of them had been allowed a suitable amount of fresh air to settle their bodily humors. She had fond memories of her father teasing her about spending so much time in the saddle. He bragged to her grandfather that she could saddle her mount in the dark. She was about to test his theory.

  She could saddle any of the horses. The noose would be just as tight for one horse as another. Isabeau knew in her deepest heart she wanted one last sentimental ride on Meadowlark before she was either sequestered for a lifetime behind stonewalls or hanging in the wind.

  Isabeau bypassed the sidesaddle and pulled a smaller travel saddle from the pegs. She lugged the saddle back to Meadowlark when she thought she heard the stirring of a stable boy. She waited a heartbeat more before sucking in air and deeming the way clear, backed into the shadows against the wall and held her breath, praying.

  Her father had been right. She could saddle Meadowlark in the dark.

  She stroked the blaze on the long nose. Tugging the reins downward enough to lower Meadowlark’s head, she whispered into the animal’s ear.

  “Please be quiet ‘til we get beyond the gate and then you can fly like a bird. We’ll stretch into the wind as we did as children. No one could catch us. No one will catch us now.” Isabeau wondered if her words were plea or prayer.

  She secured her pack to the back of the saddle and led Meadowlark from the dark stables into the bailey. The stars had already faded and dawn colors streaked the sky when they reached the road outside of the east gate. It was little used and rarely watched. Hearing the latch fall back into place behind her, Isabeau knew she had already gone beyond the threshold of regrets.

  Praise God, she had taught herself to ride astride. Never had she dreamed she would use the skill in such a bold deception. Pray her disguise was true.

  C hapter 3

  Isabeau hiked up her skirts and settled into the saddle. She leaned close to Meadowlark’s mane, and gently squeezed her knees. With a soft snuffle, Meadowlark began a brisk road-eating ramble.

  Isabeau’s instincts were to start out at a full gallop but such an action was foolhardy. It was still too dim for fast travel. What good would all her planning be if Meadowlark broke a leg in a rodent hole?

  She pushed her horse as fast as she dared, all the while waiting for more light and searching for a suitable place to change into her disguise. She wanted any early risers who saw her depart to see Lady Isabeau in an old dress rather than the earl’s messenger leaving twice. If Simon decided to send out searchers, she did not want them armed with an accurate description.

  A click of her tongue and an easy tug on the reins brought Meadowlark to a halt. Isabeau surveyed the area closer and then slid from her perch. A well-worn path led into a patch of trees. She led her palfrey into the grove and twined the reins on a stout tree branch. Cooing encouragement and gratitude to the animal, she smoothed her hand down the long neck.

  “This won’t take but a minute, I promise you. Then we’ll be on our way and soon you will be able to run flat out.” She patted the rear flank as she released the bulging pack.

  Shaking out the black and gold livery, she hung them over a tree branch and stripped out of her apron, dress and under-dress. Draping them haphazardly over another branch, she began to scramble into the breeches and discovered the task wasn’t as simple as pulling on a pair of woolen stockings. She could put one leg in the garment but when she attempted to slip her left foot in she promptly lost her balance, landing on her bottom. The mossy ground cushioned her fall but not her dignity. Nor her inadvertent oath.

  She cursed aloud at her lack of feminine grace and then giggled. Was she already getting into the character of a young male taking on the world? She reminded herself to get it out of her system before she reached the convent. The Abbess would surely frown on language peppered with blasphemies.

  Isabeau wiggled into the breeches and pulled them over her hips before she tried to stand again. She secured the ties and then pulled the tunic and message pouch over her head. In her makeshift plumage, she must keep a large distance between herself and those she passed on the road. Solitary travel had always been her strategy.

  She would be cautious.

  She would be discrete.

  She needed to get back on the road and put some ground behind her.

  Quickly she rolled up her old clothes, attached the bundle to the quaddle, and mounted, urging Meadowlark back to the road, allowing her a swifter pace now. She resisted the temptation to go full gallop, for she had a long trip and it would do her no good to spend her horse on the first leg of journey.

  The sun was directly overhead when she reached the first fork in the road. The right led to Sir William’s holdings
and the left road led to Mandrake. Beyond Mandrake was the convent.

  She knew the crossroad near Mandrake would hold the most risk. It was at the edge of the village proper. At least the junction was on her side of the village and she wouldn’t have to go through or around the settlement to continue her quest. But people would be nearby. Some might remember Malak passing through not many days before.

  Isabeau leaned closer to Meadowlark’s mane and urged a swifter pace. If she could find a place to rest the night just before Mandrake—some place safe and out of sight—she might be able to circumvent the village in the early morning before many stirred.

  With that stratagem comforting her tired mind, she sat straight in the saddle with renewed determination. She had devised a plan, she had begun the execution of it and now she was only a day away from completion. With any luck, Simon hadn’t even noticed her absence.

  Her energy began to lag a few hours later as she fell into a doze and nearly slipped from the saddle. She awoke with a jerk and caught the pummel before she completely lost her seat. Only her skilled horsemanship prevented a serious tumble.

  The hollowness in her belly reminded her that not only has she deprived herself of much needed sleep but that she had forgotten to break her fast in the excitement of her escape. She passed a couple of fields before the line of trees again paralleled the road. She found a small break in the greenery where she thought she could rest—safe from any travelers’ eyes.

  The scrub was thigh high when she slid from the saddle but it didn’t seem to be filled with thistles and prickles so she gamely led Meadowlark off the road. She thought she heard something and stopping, hushed Meadowlark long enough to listen. She almost let out a whoop of joy when she recognized the sound of the babbling of a stream.

  Cool water. Isabeau hadn’t realized how thirsty she was until she heard that welcome sound. She watered Meadowlark and tethered her near a patch of tender grass before tending to her own needs.