Norwyck's Lady

by Margo Maguire

“But—” Kathryn began.

  “I will speak to you downstairs,” Bart said firmly, and John pulled his sister’s arm and drew her out of the tower chamber. “And you…” He crouched down to look Eleanor in the eye. “You must stop giving your sister so much trouble. She’s only trying to look after you.”

  “She doesn’t need to,” Ellie said, looking down at the floor and pushing out her lower lip. “She’s not my mama or my nurse. Besides, I’m big now. I can look after myself.”

  The child’s head barely reached his waist, yet she thought she was big. He’d have laughed aloud if Lady Marguerite had not been there to witness it.

  He took Eleanor by the shoulders, turned her around and gently pushed her toward the door. When he saw that she’d gone down the first few steps, he turned back to Marguerite. “Do not think that I’ve finished with you.”

  He followed his sister out of the room, closing the door behind him. Marguerite picked up the shawl and drew it ’round her shoulders, then collapsed in a chair near the fire. Confusion prevailed in her mind. Between the images of vaguely familiar people and places, and Bartholomew Holton’s formidable presence, she could not sort through her thoughts in any coherent manner.

  She knew she should be frightened of the overtly hostile earl. She trembled in his presence and her heart pounded so loudly she believed he might even hear it. Yet her reaction was not one of fear. ’Twas one of…fascination.

  She was attracted to the man.

  Marguerite slid her lower lip through her teeth and frowned in consternation. She’d been the victim of his animosity ever since awakening to this nightmare of doubt and confusion, yet she knew he was not inherently wicked or mean. His demeanor toward his sisters had made that abundantly clear. Though he nearly managed to hide it, his tender feelings for the little girls showed every time they appeared.

  His loathing was directed solely at her. And she did not understand why.

  Marguerite drew her legs up under her, vowing that until she had a better grasp of her situation and why Bartholomew Holton was so antagonistic toward her, there would be no softening of her heart toward him.

  Chapter Four

  Morning dawned bright and sunny. Marguerite gazed out the window of her chamber and realized that her vision was completely clear. She could see a vast expanse of sandy beach, and make out several gulls flying high above the waves.

  She sent a silent prayer of thanks that her vision had been restored. Now if only her memory would return…

  On the opposite wall, another window overlooked a courtyard. Marguerite crossed the room and gazed down, anxious to see if all was clear there, too.

  She saw a number of Norwyck’s knights on a practice field beyond the courtyard, engaged in swordplay. Several of the men were on horseback, and one in particular worked at a quintain at the opposite end of the courtyard. His movements were powerful, yet agile, striking quickly and mightily, then ducking the reprisal.

  Marguerite knew at once that this man, wearing naught but a light undertunic that was damp with his exertions, was Bartholomew Holton. His hair was bound at his nape, and she sensed without seeing that his facial expression would be fierce.

  A shudder ran through her and she whirled away from the window. Her unruly response to the young lord was unacceptable. The man had no liking for her, and she had no business having the kind of reaction he kindled in her. Besides, ’twas entirely possible she had her own young man or a husband waiting somewhere for her. Mayhap even children.

  The thought of children gave her pause. Marguerite ran her hands down her bodice, across her breasts and to her belly. Had an infant once nestled in her womb? Suckled at her breast?

  She did not think so, though she could not be certain. The children whose faces came to her at odd times must have some significance to her. Who were they? Why did she see them every time she closed her eyes?

  Rather than dwell on a puzzle that served only to upset her, Marguerite pressed one hand to her heart and turned her attention elsewhere. She let her gaze alight upon the furnishings of the circular room.

  The bed, she already knew, was a comfortable one, with rich linen fittings and warm woolen blankets. Two chairs flanked a stuffed settle near the fireplace, where a fire blazed cozily. There were two large wall hangings that Marguerite was able to see clearly now, beautiful, colorful tapestries depicting happy times.

  A short, stuffed bench sat before the wash table, and a small mirror hung on the wall above it.

  Two closed trunks perched against the wall opposite the bed, and upon inspection of the first, Marguerite discovered a cache of gowns, shifts and hose—among them the clothes Eleanor had brought up the day before. At the bottom were shoes, which Marguerite took out. When she tried to slip her feet in, she discovered a collection of jewels in the toes.

  There were rings and chains of gold, with an assortment of colorful gems set into them. Marguerite weighed the pieces in her hands. Eleanor must have put them here, she thought. The child was well-meaning and eager to please, and just young enough that she would not understand the value of such jewelry.

  Marguerite put the treasure into the toe of the hose, then placed the sock carefully at the bottom of the trunk. She would see that the gold and precious gems were returned to their rightful place as soon as she was able. In the meantime, she opened the other trunk to see if any more treasures awaited.

  Inside were two musical instruments, a psaltery and a gittern. For some reason Marguerite could not fathom, these instruments seemed more precious to her than the gems she’d hidden away in the other trunk.

  Carefully, she lifted them out and set them on the bed. Each instrument was beautifully made, from the highly polished wood to the tightly woven strings. Marguerite brushed her hand across the strings of the gittern, causing a discordant sound.

  The instruments, the strings, the sounds, seemed familiar. She knew the gittern needed to be tuned, and she tightened or loosened the pegs accordingly. Afterward, when she strummed, it sounded right to her ear, though something was missing.

  She did not have time to ponder the question, though, for the door to the chamber opened and Eleanor came in. “You have Mama’s gittern!” the child said as she approached the bed.

  “Oh, ’twas your mother’s?” Marguerite asked. “I’m sorry. I’ll put it—”

  “Nay, can you play it?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “Try.”

  Marguerite took the neck of the instrument in her left hand and strummed the strings with her right, as she had done before Eleanor had come in. She placed the fingers of her left hand over different strings and elicited various notes when she did so. As she strummed the instrument, a pleasing sequence of sounds filled the room.

  She knew how to play!

  When Eleanor clapped her hands, Marguerite looked at the child in astonishment, then back at the gittern.

  “Play another!”

  “I…something is not…” Marguerite said, frowning. She was completely puzzled. She felt entirely at ease with the instrument in her hands, yet something was wrong.

  “I know!” Eleanor turned, reached into the trunk and pulled out a small object. “Kathryn calls this a plec…A plec—”

  “A plectrum,” Marguerite said, though she could not say how she had come up with the word. It had just suddenly appeared upon her tongue.

  “Aye,” Eleanor said. “And when Kate tries to play, the sounds she makes…” The child wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

  Marguerite took the quill from the child and began to play a tune, using the plectrum. The instrument now felt much more natural in her hands, and Marguerite sensed that she must have played many times before. When she noticed the calluses upon the fingertips of her left hand, there could be no doubt that she was a practiced musician.

  “I forgot,” Eleanor said. “Sir Walter sent me to see if you are hungry. Are you able to come down and break your fast with us in the great hall, or would you rath
er have a tray up here?”

  Marguerite hardly knew how to respond. She’d been cloistered in this tower room ever since awakening without her memory, and she felt strangely timid about leaving. “I don’t think your brother—”

  “Bartie is training on the practice field with the rest of the knights,” Eleanor said, unconcerned. She lifted the lid of the trunk that contained the clothing, and pulled out a bundle of dark green cloth. “He will be out there for hours.”

  Marguerite set down the gittern and took the gown from Eleanor. ’Twas a lovely creation of velvet, with contrasting panels of gold and white silk. “Did this belong to your mother?” she asked the child.

  “Nay. To Bartie’s wife.”

  “His…wife?”

  “Aye,” Eleanor said. She stuck out her lower lip and looked away. “She died in spring.”

  So that was the reason for Bartholomew’s hostility. His beloved wife had died, and here Marguerite was, an interloper in what must have been Lady Norwyck’s tower room. ’Twas no wonder he was not disposed to be friendly toward her, and Marguerite did not think ’twould be prudent to wear the late Lady Norwyck’s clothes.

  “Mayhap your brother would be disturbed by seeing me in his poor wife’s gown.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it might remind him of her.”

  Eleanor seemed to consider this for a moment, then shook her head. “Nay,” the girl said. “He never saw her in it.”

  Marguerite’s expression must have been a startled one, causing Eleanor to explain. “This gown was made while Bartie was away, fighting the Scottish wars,” she said. “When he came home, Felicia was with child, so she never wore it.”

  “A-and she died…in childbirth?”

  “Aye,” Eleanor said. “And the bairn with her.”

  “How terrible,” Marguerite said, aghast at Eleanor’s revelation. “Your brother must have been devastated.”

  “Aye,” Eleanor remarked. “And he said that if he ever got his hands on the Armstrong bastard who fathered the bairn, he’d kill him.”

  Marguerite and Eleanor descended the stairs and saw that the other children were already at table, breaking their fast. “My lady,” John said as he looked up. Smiling, he came to the foot of the stairs, took her hand like a true gentleman and escorted her to the table. “I’m glad you decided to join us.”

  “Thank you, John,” Marguerite replied, relieved by a moment of normalcy in this strange place.

  Henry was tearing into his meal, completely oblivious to her presence. Kathryn was there, too, but she stopped eating and placed her hands in her lap. Her displeasure with Marguerite’s presence could not have been made clearer. No one named Sir Walter was present.

  “Good morning to you all,” Marguerite said brightly.

  “Sit here, my lady,” John said. “Next to my place.”

  “Thank you, John,” she said as she took a seat. From the corner of her eyes, she observed Kathryn rolling her eyes with disdain.

  “I’m off to the training field,” Henry said as he wiped his mouth and stood.

  “But Bartholomew forbade you to—”

  “Stuff it, pest,” Henry said as he circled the table. “I do as I please.”

  Kathryn bit her lip to keep from responding, but Marguerite could see that Henry’s defiance, as well as the rude name he’d called her, did not sit well with his younger sister.

  “There’s bread and fish,” Eleanor said, ignoring her brother and handing Marguerite a platter laden with food.

  “And cider,” John added, filling a mug for her.

  “Thank you both,” Marguerite said as she applied herself to the food before her. Sitting here among the Holton children felt right. This was as it should be, she thought, with the children around her….

  A clear, but fleeting memory filtered through her mind, and she saw three bright blond heads bent over their bowls, children eating hungrily, happily.

  The memory disappeared before it really took hold in her mind, and Marguerite could not recapture it, though she concentrated hard enough to make herself light-headed. Frowning, she bit her lip and refrained from groaning in frustration.

  “My lady?” Eleanor asked as she placed one hand on Marguerite’s arm.

  “Oh, ’tis naught,” she replied, giving the child a quavering smile. “My head…’tis just a bit sore is all.”

  “Mayhap you should return to your bed,” Eleanor said, her voice full of concern.

  “I’ll be fine,” Marguerite said, “though a walk outside might help.” She thought the fresh air might serve to clear her head, and possibly bring back the memories that were so elusive.

  “Shall we go and see Bartie?” Eleanor asked, following Marguerite’s lead in pushing away from the table.

  “I think not,” she replied. She doubted that Bartholomew would appreciate her arrival upon the practice field. He barely tolerated her presence in the tower. “Mayhap to the beach? Where your brother found me?”

  Kathryn slapped one hand upon the table. “Bartholomew will be angry if you go outside the walls.”

  “Just to the beach?”

  “You know what he said, Eleanor,” Kathryn said angrily. She addressed her sister, as if it had not been Marguerite who had spoken. “No one is to leave Norwyck’s walls. Not with the Armstrong threatening us at every—”

  “Well, our men routed the Armstrongs when they last attacked, did they not?” John asked.

  “Yes, but—”

  “’Tis no matter, Kathryn,” Marguerite said, unwilling to ruffle anyone’s feathers. “I’ll walk in the garden if that’s permissible.”

  Kathryn shrugged. “It should be all right,” she said grudgingly.

  “We’ll come with you,” John said, arising from the table.

  “Nay, John,” Marguerite said. She needed to be alone to try to sort out her thoughts. She touched Eleanor’s head gently, and addressed them both. “I’d like to go by myself this time.”

  Both children looked disappointed, but they accepted Marguerite’s declination graciously.

  “Shall I find you a shawl?” Eleanor asked, regaining her usual enthusiasm.

  Marguerite smiled. “That would be lovely.”

  Bartholomew handed his helm and sword to the young page, while his squire unfastened the heavy breastplate and pulled it off him. Then he bent at the waist and unbuckled his own cuisses and greaves while he gave Henry’s argument his full attention.

  “But, Bartholomew, ’Tis well past time for me to begin my training,” the lad said. “I’ll never become a knight if you do not give your consent.”

  Henry’s argument was a valid one, but Bart would rather keep his brothers at Norwyck, safe behind its stout walls. If he sent them out to foster, they’d be subject to all sorts of dangers. Here, at least, he could keep them protected. Safe.

  Bart handed the last of his armor to his squire and turned to Henry. “I’ll give it due consideration, Hal.”

  “Not good enough, Bart,” Henry said, digging in his heels. “I am ready. You know I am.”

  Bart put his arm across his brother’s shoulders and started walking. “You are that anxious to leave us?”

  “’Tis not that,” Henry said. “But how will I ever become a man, make something of myself as you and Will did? If you do not send me out to foster—”

  “Hal, I did not deny your request,” Bart said. “I merely said—”

  “That you’d consider it. Aye, I know,” Henry said. “Please, Bart. I want to become a knight, like you. Like William. I want to come back and fight the damnable Armstrongs. Mayhap one day I’ll be the one to bring Lachann Armstrong’s head to Norwyck.”

  “Mayhap,” Bart said quietly. After all that had occurred, he’d hoped his younger brothers would be content to remain at Norwyck. Clearly, that was not the case. At least not with Henry. John gave no sign of wanting to leave, but ’twas possible the lad just kept his own counsel. He tended to be less outspoken than his twin.
/>   Bart let his arm drop, and continued walking toward the hall. The chilly air cooled his overheated body, right through the light tunic and hose that he wore. He was looking forward to a bath and a shave, and did not want to think about his brothers leaving.

  As they neared the keep, Bart caught sight of a woman walking toward the postern gate, a small, rusted entryway from the beach that was so rarely used, he’d forgotten it. ’Twas Marguerite.

  “Go on ahead,” he said to Henry. “I’ll return later.”

  Angry with his lack of a decisive answer, Henry did not protest, but stalked away as Bartholomew headed toward Marguerite.

  Her skirts were green, and she was wrapped in a dark woolen shawl that concealed her form from her neck to her hips. Her head was uncovered, and her honey-brown tresses were attractively confined in soft, artful plaits that set off the delicate bones of her face.

  Bart chastised himself for beginning to believe the woman’s story, only to find her attempting to slip away from Norwyck. Where was she going, and who did she plan to meet? He sped up his pace in order to catch up with her before she could pass through the gate.

  “Where are you going?” he asked roughly, grabbing hold of her arm.

  She winced in pain as he pulled her around to face him, but Bart refused to take note of her discomfort. Chivalry be damned. He had no intention of letting her play him for a fool.

  “T-to the garden,” she replied, pulling away from him.

  Her hesitation betrayed her. True enough, Norwyck’s expansive garden lay adjacent to the wall, but Bartholomew was certain she would not have stammered had she spoken the truth.

  He made a rude noise. “I don’t know why I bothered to ask.”

  “I—”

  “Get back to the keep, madam,” he said. “And do not venture—”

  “Nay!” she cried, standing firm as she crossed her arms over her chest. “I have no intention of returning to the keep until I’ve had my walk.”

  “’Tis not for you to defy—”

  “Nor should you try to hold me prisoner!” she said, her eyes flashing angrily. Her chin trembled and she swallowed once, drawing his eyes to the muscles working in her delicate neck. The pulse at the base of her throat throbbed rapidly. “I have done naught to you or yours, my lord, and I wish you would stop your…your vile insinuations!”