Betrothed

by Lori Snow

  Not wanting to dig too deep into her supplies, she ate only a small meat pie. The light meal seemed to suit her for the time. If the hunger pangs returned she could nibble later. Kneeling on the water’s edge, she splashed water on her face and then cupped her palms for several draughts.

  “Are you lost, lad?” A deep voice with a touch of humor boomed from the break in the tree line she had used.

  The unexpected intrusion startled Isabeau. She nearly tumbled headfirst into the creek. Catching her balance, she slowly turned to the large man dressed in black striding towards her.

  “Nay.” Her voice cracked and she tried again, this time remembering her role and tried to deepen her tone. She pulled her hat even tighter on her head. Praise be, she hadn’t taken it off. “Nay, sir. I know my way.”

  “Then what are you doing here? What are you about?” Now, a scowl twisted the firm mouth. The scar marking the side of the interloper’s face from temple to jaw-line was difficult to ignore. The white line did not make his countenance hideous; just fierce.

  “I am about the business of the Earl of Bennington.” she stated with false bravado.

  “Are you now?” The man—heavens, he was big—took two more lengthy strides, placing his bulk between Isabeau and her horse. His gauntleted hand rested securely on the hilt of his sword.

  “Aye.” Her voice cracked again. “ ’Twould be unwise to interfere with Bennington’s messenger. His revenge would be swift and vicious.”

  “Would it, now?” The smile that curved his mouth twisted the fear churning in her belly. It appeared he had no fear for the legendary Donovan d’Allyonshire, second Earl of Bennington; King Edward’s favored warrior. So why would he fear her—no matter her guise?

  “Carstairs? A moi,” he called over his shoulder as he continued his steady approach. Another figure filled the opening in the trees and Isabeau knew she was lost.

  Pray, let them kill me quick.

  “Aye, my lord?”

  The first man waved a gauntlet in her direction—not his sword arm, she noticed. “This pup states quite boldly that he is doing Bennington’s business.”

  “Does he?”

  Isabeau could feel her color leach under the intense scrutiny of both men.

  “ ’Tis the Bennington livery, all right,” The second man added after he made a head to toe survey. “How many Bennington messengers are on the road?”

  Isabeau took a step back and slipped on the slick bank. She would have gone backwards into the water if not for the snake-like reactions of the first man. He grasped her forearm and yanked her forward. “Just the one.”

  “And even I can tell that is not young Malak. For one thing, he is much too quiet,” the second man commented humorously.

  “What has happened to my man?” the scarred one demanded menacingly as he shook her. “As you so rightly brayed, my revenge is swift and vicious. What have you done to Malak that you wear his clothes?”

  Isabeau’s mouth went dry as she comprehended exactly who had crossed her path.

  By the saints, she was dead.

  She tried to find words—any words that could save her life. Of all people to meet, she never dreamed she would encounter the earl himself. She swallowed and coughed on the dry knot in her throat.

  “My --my lord. I meant no harm. I have done no harm. Malak should safely be on his way to Montrose as we speak. He was to leave Olivet Manor this very morn.”

  He shook her arm again. “Then what is the meaning of this? How do you come to be wearing his clothes? Did you even leave him his breeches? Or is he going bare-assed?”

  Her cheeks began to burn. “I swear Malak has come to no harm, nor is he—bare-assed. I wear a copy of his livery only.”

  His intense dark blue stare of appraisal sent shivers through her. “A poor imitation of my livery. You can thank shoddy tailoring for adding a few hours to your life, pup.”

  “Please, let me go. I only wished to travel un-accosted. I hoped no one would hinder my passage. I meant no ill.”

  “I don’t believe you.” He pulled Isabeau towards Meadowlark and then grabbed the palfrey’s reins with his free hand. “I’ll not let you out of my sight until I have proof Malak has come to no harm. You say he was at Olivet this morning?”

  “Aye,” she nodded breathlessly.

  “Carstairs, tell the men there will be a change in our travel plans.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Carstairs turned back to the road.

  “We now travel to Montrose with a stop at Olivet on the way.”

  “No,” Isabeau sobbed. She tried to recover but she could feel her hope withering. “I tell you, Malak is no longer at Olivet. He is on his way to Montrose.”

  “What are you? A thief? Did you rob Olivet of a bobble or two? I’ll have Carstairs go through your packs before we set out. I’m sure Olivet will know what to do with a petty thief.”

  She stumbled, trying to keep up with his long legs. Her head brushed against the earl’s shoulder and shifted her worn hat. The movement apparently caught his eye for he turned his attention back to her and he halted so fast she cannoned into him. Again, he kept her on her feet.

  “What is this?” He whipped the cap off before she could blink, revealing her braids. “A female? Just who are you?”

  Isabeau wanted to cry but she tilted her chin and held back the tears burning her eyes. “I’m Lady Isabeau d’Olivet. My brother is Simon, Lord d’Olivet.”

  Letting go of both Meadowlark’s reins and her cap, he gripped both her arms and lifted her to her toes. “What is the meaning of this? What fool idea got in your female head that you would venture this far from home in such a pitiful masquerade?”

  “It wasn’t pitiful,” she defiantly snapped. “I didn’t have time for my best stitches. No one else but you would have accosted me.”

  “And just where were you headed?”

  There was no hope for it. Isabeau briefly closed her eyes and licked her lips. “I was on my way to the Sisters of Saint Ignatius.”

  “The convent?” His anger turned to astonishment. “For what purpose?”

  “Why, to take vows? What other reason?”

  He recaptured the reins and began to usher her back to the road. “What other reason could there be? Do you know how far the convent is? You have another full day’s ride. On your own? I wager you have never slept alone beneath the stars in your pampered life. And you thought to go such a distance?”

  At the road’s edge, he threw her up into the saddle and gave the reins to Carstairs. “I don’t believe you. In fact, there is little about your tale that I credit. A lady of gentle birth taking to the road without escort? In the guise of courier? We will go to Olivet and verify your story.”

  Isabeau rode in silence. She gripped the saddle until her fingers turned white and her nails cut into the leather. What was she to do now? She would not only have to face Simon’s punishment but now she had brought Bennington’s wrath down about her ears. He thought she had brought Malak to a dire end. He had little reason to trust her or show her mercy.

  She tried to remember the tales her father had told her of Donovan’s heroic exploits. How his battle campaigns had brought victory in the name of King Edward III. He fought without fear. His battle-plans were without flaws. He meted out justice with a cool and relentless hand.

  Though only in his twenty-seventh year, he had worn the mantel and responsibilities of Earl of Bennington for nearly a decade. His father had fallen in battle, fighting for the king and Donovan became liege lord of Isabeau’s father as well as the other noblemen in the region. His every action had become legend among his people as with every mission, he exceeded his father’s deeds. Where some knights might go tourneying -- adding prestige and riches -- Bennington went to battle.

  Was this a man to show leniency to an impostor?

  Then she remembered Christian. She felt a bittersweet smile curve the corner of her mouth. The black-haired three-year-old had been a miniature of his father. The boy
had adored his much-absent parent as much as the puppy the man had given him. A puppy the fierce warrior had brought across the waters from Normandy.

  All too soon, Isabeau recognized landmarks close to Olivet. The very air seemed as oppressive as Simon’s rule. While not overly hot, the hazy sky teased the farmers with a hint of rain that the clouds refused to release. She felt disheartened not only at her return, but also at the realization she had not covered as much ground as she had thought. Simon’s fury at her attempt to escape would know no bounds. She would be lucky if she survived this day.

  But she was of Olivet. Determination stirred.

  Straightening her spine, she called out desperately at her captor’s back, “my lord?”

  For several heartbeats, she thought he was going to ignore her but then he slowed the pace of his horse to easily fall in line with her.

  “Yes, milady?” he asked with a sardonic crook to his brow, the white line prominent in the sun.

  “I would ask a boon of you.”

  There was no humor in the laugh that rolled out of his mouth. “You are a bold little bit. And what would this boon be?”

  “I would ask that you allow me to enter the gates of Olivet without my—present costume. I would not wish to—to disrupt the manor any more than it will already be when your party arrives.” She prayed he would relent. She prayed he would change his mind and continue on to Montrose, but she knew in her belly such a change was too much to hope for. They were too close to Olivet to not take advantage of its’ available hospitality.

  “Think you that by now your people would not have noticed your absence?”

  “I—I beg of you, my lord. Please, allow me to change my clothes.”

  His blue eyes seared into her soul and for a moment she thought she recognized pain in his depths. “Very well. You can momentarily continue your charade of innocence. But I make no promises for the future.”

  They had traveled with only brief stops and arrived at the gates of Olivet after the evening meal. When the sentry had exclaimed at Isabeau being in the midst of the group, his lordship made a casual comment about meeting her a short distance down the road; that she had agreed to act as guide.

  She continued the charade by boldly leading the way into the Great Hall and then seeing to the needs of the road-weary travelers. In her nervousness, she forgot her new position and issued orders as if she were still the chatelaine of Olivet. But she was not anxious to join the meal. Her belly was too gnarled to take more food than pieces of bread.

  As of yet, the earl had held his tongue, but he had yet to meet her brother.

  She sent a message to Simon but he never came to the hall to greet his prestigious guest.

  The servant did not even bring back regrets. Why was he behaving this way; putting them all in danger of Bennington’s anger? The earl was Simon’s liege!

  Where, in the name of the saints, was Simon?

  C hapter 4

  Even in the familiarity of her own bed, exhausted as she was after her fruitless adventure, Isabeau slept fitfully. Every sound seemed to reverberate through the Manor. She started at the smallest noise, expecting any minute that Simon would throw open her door and lay into her with his favored crop. The anticipation was far worse than a beating. She just wanted it over.

  Dragging herself out of bed, Isabeau entered the kitchens before the night melted into day. Marley met her with storm of excitement over their guests and the pressure to provide accustomed fare suitable for the earl. Isabeau didn’t bother to remind the cook that conditions would be primitive on the battlefields. Instead, she pitched in, allowing Marley’s reflected enthusiasm to mask her trepidation.

  All was ready when Donovan came down the tower stairs and his men had assembled from the barracks or from the bedrolls they had spread out in the Great Hall. The Olivet people gave way to the Bennington warriors as was their place. Chattering voices echoed from the vaulted ceiling; the sing-song rhythm of a comfortable keep. Isabeau looked over the crowded tables with pride. This was the Olivet of her girlhood. This was the way it should always be.

  She scanned the room one last time and noted the two empty chairs at the head of the table. Syllba was yet in childbed, having lost another babe several weeks past. Isabeau didn’t think even the king’s presence could get her sister-in-law into the Great Hall.

  But Simon?

  To her knowledge, he had still not welcomed his liege. What was he thinking? Was he even within the walls of Olivet? And if not, why had none of his personal attendants said anything?

  She gave the nod to the house priest to lead the prayer of thanks and bowed her head in supplication. As his final “Amen” bounced against the walls, she gave the servants the signal to bring their loaded trays to the tables. She was happy, standing at her post directing the well-orchestrated movements, occasionally casting a glance or two towards the legend now occupying Simon’s throne.

  The blue of Lord Donovan’s eyes held the shadows of pain, though presently they were lit with humor as he spoke in low tones to the serving boy pouring his ale. She studied the small white scar that ran under his left jawbone. Who had nursed the wound that had left behind such a mark?

  She would have made good her escape back into the kitchens if not for the object of her wayward thoughts.

  “Lady Isabeau!”

  She jumped and bumped into the serving girl walking by her.

  “Y-yes, my lord?” Her cheeks burned with the crack in her voice -- so much a remnant of their encounter at the creek. She wanted nothing to remind him of her escapade.

  “Come break your fast with me.” He indicated the empty chair to his left. Lady Syllba’s chair.

  How could she refuse her liege lord?

  Feeling all eyes upon her, she stiffly made her way across the room. With exacting care, she managed not to create a calamity.

  He stood as she approached the table and waited until the serving boy had assisted her into her sister-in-law’s chair before resuming his place.

  “You set a delicious table, my lady. Each bit tempts one to take another,” the warrior complimented in his deep voice.

  How was she to think of food? How was she to get a morsel into her mouth without gagging? All she wanted was to know what he would tell her brother -- and when. This was the man who held the truth of her failed escape.

  Licking her suddenly dry lips, she tried to find words to respond to his compliment. She opened her mouth and his rugged hand placed a morsel of bread and honey to her lips. Careful not to bite the hand that fed her, she pulled the proffered food in with her lips and tongue. Chewing, she prayed she wouldn’t choke on the warm bread.

  She swallowed quickly, “Thank you, my lord.”

  Lord Donovan looked up from perusing the egg dish that had just been set before him as a scowl creased his brow. “For what?”

  His expression of mild confusion drew her attention once again to the white scar that traced the side of his face. Momentarily, she lost track of the conversation, and her eyes strayed back to the blue of his.

  “For—for your compliment and—and for not exposing my folly to my brother.”

  His scowl deepened. “I made no promises to keep my silence.” Then his expression lightened with wry humor. “It would be extremely difficult to discuss any matter with Lord Simon as I have yet to meet the man.”

  She could find nothing to say in her brother’s defense so she wisely kept her mouth shut.

  The earl pointedly tore off a large hunk of the warm bread “I noticed a few changes in Olivet as we approached last eve.”

  “My lord? Is this not your first visit to my father’s keep---pardonez—my brother’s keep? Surely, I would remember the visit of my father’s liege lord.” She ordered herself to watch her tongue. At all times, she must remember everything now belonged to her older half-brother. The consequences could be painful.

  “It has been several years since I have come to your gracious home. I was but a boy when I visited with
my father and then later with your grandfather -- may God keep both those honorable men.”

  For a moment, Isabeau thought she had misheard his words. “My grandfather?”

  “Aye, my lady.” Donovan picked up his goblet and took a swig. “I fostered with your mother’s sire. Lord Tourrey was a hard taskmaster, but fair. I learned many of life’s lessons under his wise tutelage. And your grandmother was as beautiful as she was gracious. You have much the look of her.”

  Warmth grew in her cheeks. “Thank you, my lord.”

  When his smile widened, she knew he must have noticed her blush. She successfully resisted the urge to cover her face. “If it pleases you, my lord, I would have you share your recollections of my grandparents one day.”

  “I would be honored to share fond memories with one as charming as my beautiful hostess.”

  “Lady Syllba is your true hostess,” she quickly reminded him again. “I am but…”

  Donovan waved a hand to cut off her objections. “You have recited enough of that catechism. I am not a blind man. Mayhap ‘twould be best if we changed the subject. Do you play chess? Might you challenge me to a match after the evening meal?”

  As if she would refuse any of his requests. “Mayhap.” She couldn’t believe the words that began to spill out of her mouth. “Mayhap, I will challenge you to target practice instead.”

  His dark brows lifted a fraction. “Target practice, my lady?”

  “Aye.” Where had this boldness come from? She had thought it leached from her by Simon’s beatings. “My papa trained me to throw the knife when Mama was not looking. I’m quite skilled.” How dare she be such a braggart?

  “I look forward to the competition.” A teasing sparkle lit his midnight blue eyes.

  Isabeau took a sip of wine to dampen her throat and strengthen her courage. The time seemed right to bring up the past. “I wanted to tell you that I grieved when the news reached us of your loss. I did not know your lady wife well for she spent much of her time here comforting Simon’s wife in her confinement, but I had some grand adventures with Christian. He was so vibrant and full of energy. I was struck dumb when word came that fever had taken him so soon after their last visit to Olivet. My prayers are with them and with you also.”