Norwyck's Lady

by Margo Maguire

  That did not mean he would trust her. He would provide shelter and board at Norwyck, but ’twas not necessary for him to believe every tale she told. She was beautiful, and enticing, and that was enough for him.

  Chapter Six

  All day long, Marguerite experienced fragments of visions that made no sense, and left her feeling unsettled and uneasy. Try as she might, she could not remember who the blond children were, nor could she place the manor house with all the flowers surrounding it. She had no doubt that these images meant something, but she could not figure out what.

  So preoccupied was Marguerite that ’twas after the evening meal before she remembered the jewels in the trunk in the tower room. But Eleanor had been confined to her chamber for the time being, as a penalty for evading Nurse Ada and causing so much disruption at the site of the wall construction. Marguerite would have to wait until the child was freed from her punishment before she could get the jewels back to Bartholomew’s chamber.

  Supper was a quiet affair, and Bartholomew did not join them, since he was out on patrol with a company of knights. Only John made any attempt at conversation, while Henry attacked his meal silently. Kathryn excused herself as soon as she was finished eating, and Marguerite followed soon afterward, feeling troubled and lonely.

  She went up to the tower and discovered that a fire was already burning cozily in the grate. She would have sat down and gazed out at the sea while she tried to sort out her thoughts, but night had fallen and ’twas dark outside the tower windows. She lit a lamp and stood alone in the center of the room, feeling chilled in spite of the fire.

  She finally knelt by the trunk where she had hidden the jewels, taking each piece out to admire it in the flickering light. ’Twas awkward having them in her chamber, but there was naught she could do about it now. She would see that they were all returned to Bartholomew’s chamber as soon as possible.

  Marguerite put the precious pieces away, then prepared for bed, kneeling first to pray for the return of her memory. Then she prayed for Bartholomew, that God would return him safely to the keep after his patrol, and finally added his siblings and all of Norwyck to her intercessions.

  She undressed down to her shift and washed, and was just about to blow out the lamp and climb into bed when her chamber door opened and Bartholomew stepped inside.

  As always, Bart was struck by her beauty. Unclothed as she was now, or fully garbed, she enticed him as no other had ever done.

  “M-my lord?” she asked tremulously.

  He stepped into the room, unsure why he’d climbed up here now, still smelling of horse and sweat, when he’d told her to come to him when she was ready.

  “Is there…”

  “My sisters need looking after,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. The idea had come to him just now, when he realized he needed some reason, some excuse to have barged in on her this way. “I thought perhaps you…”

  “Perhaps I…?”

  “Would take them on,” he said, taking one step toward her. “Only until I find a proper nurse for them.”

  “But I don’t belong here, my lord,” she said. Her voice was quiet, naively seductive. She reached for her shawl and covered her gloriously bare shoulders.

  Bart swallowed and moved closer. His fingers burned to touch her; his mouth longed to taste her. ’Twas a kind of madness he could neither understand nor control.

  “As soon as I remember where I belong, I must leave Norwyck.”

  “Have any memories returned?”

  She shook her head. “Nay, not really. A few faces, a manor house…that’s all.”

  “Then it may be some time before you remember who you are…where you belong.” He, too, could play this game.

  Her eyes glittered with moisture, and Bart wondered if she’d produced those tears for his benefit, to play upon his sympathies.

  She could not possibly know that he had none.

  “I…I suppose I could look after Eleanor,” Marguerite replied. She slipped away from him and moved to the fireplace, unaware that the light from behind outlined her legs and hips in detail. Bart’s mouth went dry. “But Kathryn will not take kindly to my supervision.”

  He cleared his throat. “I saw how you handled Eleanor today,” he said. “I have no doubt that you can manage something with Kate.”

  “Your confidence is humbling, my lord,” she said.

  And her apparent naiveté was all too beguiling. Was that part of it? Had she been sent by Lachann Armstrong for some nefarious purpose, mayhap to seduce him, as Felicia had been seduced by his son?

  Bart almost laughed at the thought. If anyone at Norwyck were to be seduced, ’twould be Marguerite. And soon.

  “Will you do it?” he asked. “Watch over my sisters?”

  She bit her lip. “Aye, my lord,” she finally said. “I’ll try.”

  “All is quiet, my lord?” Sir Walter asked, meeting Bartholomew at the foot of the stairs in the great hall.

  “Aye,” Bart replied. “No raiders in the hills tonight.”

  “It’s turned cold, though.”

  Bart nodded. His feet and hands had been nearly numb when he’d returned to Norwyck’s courtyard after his patrol. But his visit in Lady Marguerite’s chamber had warmed him significantly.

  “My lord…young Henry asked me to speak to you with regard to his fostering.”

  Bart rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn’t expected his brother to ask Sir Walter to intercede for him.

  “The lad’s fondest desire is to become a knight,” Sir Walter said. “There must be an estate where he can go and squire, my lord. I would not deny him this, if I were you.”

  “Nay,” Bart said with a sigh. “I know he should go, as should John. ’Tis just that the past months have been difficult…for all of us….”

  “Aye,” Walter said. “You could not bear to part with them.”

  Bartholomew would not deny it. He had needed the presence of his young brothers to help soften his grief when William had been killed. But ’twas past time to let them go.

  “’Tis true,” Bart said as he poured warm, mulled wine into a thick earthenware mug. He offered it to Walter, then poured his own and sat down in one of the big, comfortable chairs before the fire. Everything continued on at Norwyck, different, yet just as it had before, with Will gone and Felicia’s betrayal. There were quiet nights in the hall, teasing banter with his siblings.

  And now there was Marguerite.

  “I have yet to meet the lady you brought back from the shipwreck,” Sir Walter said.

  “I’ve asked her to look after Eleanor and Kate until she regains her memory.”

  Walter frowned as if he had not heard Bartholomew correctly. “She still does not remember?”

  “Nay. And she still wants me to believe she cannot remember who she is, or where she’s from.”

  Sir Walter scratched his head. “I’ve seen that once, my lord.”

  “What? A bump on the head—”

  “Nay, the loss of memory,” the knight replied. “When I was a lad, no older than your brothers, a man in our village fell from a tree while he was picking apples. He was knocked unconscious, and when he came to his senses, he had no knowledge of who he was.”

  Bart frowned. “Did he ever remember?”

  “Aye, I think so. He must have,” Walter said, frowning at Bartholomew. “Mustn’t he?”

  Bart had no idea. But the fact that Walter had witnessed the same kind of memory loss suffered by Marguerite lent credence to her story. Still…just because she might have told the truth about her memory did not mean they had to believe anything else she had to say. She was a woman, and therefore capable of any manner of deceit.

  “My lord…” Sir Walter seemed hesitant. “You know that I had my doubts about Lady Felicia for many months after you and Lord William left with King Edward for Scotland.”

  “’Tis pointless to belabor it now, Walter.”

  “I just want you to know that I did what I
could to control the lass,” he said. “’Twas my opinion, back when your father made the betrothal agreement with the lady’s father, that she was not to be trusted. She had too many opportunities to ally herself with the Scots while she was in France.”

  Bartholomew had considered this possibility over and over after Felicia’s death in childbirth. He wondered if she’d begun her liaison with Dùghlas Armstrong while she was in France, well before their marriage.

  ’Twas altogether possible, since the Armstrongs had relations in France, and Felicia had spent several years there. But since Bart was not on speaking terms with the Armstrongs, he did not know if Dùghlas had spent any time in France while Felicia was there.

  The two men let the matter drop as they sipped their wine. They had discussed William’s murder and Felicia’s betrayal until they both were sick to death of it. Bart did not need to hear Walter’s suspicions again to know that Felicia had never been worthy of his trust.

  He vowed never to make the same mistake again.

  She was drowning.

  She struggled to keep her head above the water, but the waves overcame her and dunked her again and again.

  “Marie! Tenez!” cried a man nearby. She could hardly make out his features, for he was soaked, and repeatedly swamped by the violent waves of the sea. But he was young and handsome, and his hair was light.

  Several times she tried to reach out to him, but something always prevented it. Then, all at once, she had hold of his hand and he was pulling her toward him.

  “Ici! Prenez ma main!”

  She grabbed him, but her hand slipped out of his—

  “My lady!”

  A heavy weight pressed the breath from her chest and she struggled for air. The mast had come crashing down and the sea was swallowing her! She thrashed against the water that was pulling her down, and tried to call out to the man whose hand she’d just lost. She thought her heart would burst with terror. She could not catch her breath, and she wept with the effort it took.

  “Marguerite!”

  She opened her eyes. ’Twas Eleanor upon her chest. Marguerite was not drowning, nor was there a light-haired man calling to her…in French. What was it he’d said?

  “You were having a bad dream,” Eleanor said, as Marguerite tried to recapture the visions of the ship going down. Somehow, the dream should help her to remember. It must!

  Another voice intruded. “My sister was so thrilled to have you looking after her, she could not wait to come up and see you,” Bartholomew said dryly. He stood leaning on the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest.

  Marguerite had some difficulty catching her breath and gathering her thoughts. First the disturbing dream, and now Bartholomew…standing so tall and masculine, watching her with dark, hooded eyes. She knew he had barely restrained the urge to take her in his arms the night before, and Marguerite had hardly been able to think of anything but the way his mouth had felt upon hers, his hands caressing her body.

  The man in her dream had never had such a tumultuous effect on her. Marguerite did not know how she knew it, but she could not have been more certain.

  “What shall we do today?” Eleanor asked as she slid off the bed. Marguerite pulled the blanket up to her neck. “Will you teach me to play the gittern?”

  “I—”

  “Or take me to the garden and watch me climb—”

  “Eleanor,” Bartholomew said with a warning in his tone. “You can easily be confined to your quarters again.”

  “Nay, Bartie!” Eleanor cried, rushing over to her brother to implore him to have mercy.

  Marguerite could not resist a small smile. “If you two will give me but a moment, I will dress and join you in the hall. Then we can decide what to do today.”

  Anxious to do whatever was necessary to speed the process, Eleanor shoved past Bartholomew and scampered down the stone steps. He remained as he was for a moment, leaving his eyes locked on Marguerite’s. The promise in his gaze made her tremble. And when he turned and left the chamber, she flopped back on the bed and attempted to calm her wildly beating heart.

  When she realized ’twas no use, she climbed out of bed, worried that she would feel edgy all day.

  “What are you doing with that?” Henry asked when he came into the great hall, dressed in old clothes and smelling as if he’d brought the entire stable with him.

  “She is playing Mama’s gittern,” Eleanor said, wrinkling her nose.

  Marguerite would have preferred to take Eleanor and her music to the solar rather than making a spectacle of herself here, but she’d hoped to garner Kathryn’s interest. So far, the elder sister had gone to great pains to avoid Marguerite throughout the day. But from the time she had started playing the beautiful gittern, Kathryn had come through the hall twice.

  Since early that morning, Marguerite had seen Bartholomew only at a distance, and the space between them gave her some relief from the tension she felt whenever he was near. The farther he stayed away from her, the less likely she was to succumb to his allure.

  “You can play my mother’s gittern?”

  “’Twould seem so, Henry,” Marguerite replied.

  “Though I cannot tell you how I remember the music.”

  “’Tis your fingers that remember,” Eleanor said ingenuously.

  Marguerite heard a snicker behind her, but ignored it. She knew ’twas Kate’s reaction to her sister’s innocent remark.

  “Play a tune, then,” Henry said.

  Marguerite took the neck of the gittern in her left hand and put her fingers into position. Closing her eyes and making her mind go blank, she used the plectrum to pick out a tune. Then she began to hum.

  John added his voice to hers, putting in a word or phrase as the song continued. When it was finished, Eleanor clapped her hands with delight. “Mama used to play that song for us!”

  “’Tis a popular tune all over Britain and France,” Bartholomew said as he stepped away from the staircase. He was freshly washed and shaved, and Marguerite did not think he’d ever looked quite so handsome as he did now.

  “Aye, but ’twas a favorite of Mother’s,” John said.

  “True enough,” Bartholomew replied. “So, you remember how to play,” he said to Marguerite.

  “Aye.” She nodded. The song had sent a sharp stab of bittersweet longing through her, and she had to struggle to find her voice. “I do.”

  “You…play very well,” he said, the compliment sounding awkward on his tongue. “Play another.” He sat in a chair opposite her and pulled Eleanor onto his lap.

  Surprised by Bartholomew’s kind words, Marguerite managed to continue playing, to the delight of the children, and many of the servants, who came into the hall to listen. Kathryn only walked through a few times, the scowl on her face never softening.

  Yet there was a flicker of interest in her eyes that made Marguerite believe that the girl wished she could be part of the group, but had too much pride to join their frivolous activity. Besides which, ’twas Marguerite who was at the center of it all, and Kate had decided from the first day to dislike her.

  Marguerite caught Bartholomew’s eye and tipped her head slightly toward Kathryn. It took a moment for him to understand what she intended, but he finally caught on.

  “Kate,” he said. “Come and sit here with us.”

  “Nay, Bartholomew,” she replied, walking away from the group. “I have work—”

  “It can wait,” he said. “Why don’t you sit here by me, and show Lady Marguerite your own talents with the gittern?”

  “I think not, Bartholomew,” she said indignantly. And she left the hall.

  Marguerite tried not to let Kathryn’s rebuff worsen her mood. She played another tune, and another. For some reason, she’d had fewer “memories” today, as if her dream that morning had somehow shocked the visions right out of her.

  In a way, she did not miss those snippets of memory. All they did was confuse and upset her. The images of those children and the
feeling that something was horribly wrong disturbed her. What if they were her children? What if they were at home in the lovely flower-strewn manor, waiting for word of her, while she sat here in Norwyck’s great hall, entertaining other children with her music?

  Pain and uncertainty suddenly choked Marguerite, and she felt a burning at the back of her throat. Her hands trembled and she was no longer able to play. Biting her lip to keep it from trembling, she stood up, set the gittern against the back of her chair and stepped away from the group.

  “I’m…I—” She could not think what to say, but turned and fled from the hall. She did not think about where she was going, but blinked back tears as she moved, and eventually found herself in a quiet, dimly lit chapel at the opposite end of the keep.

  There were several long benches against the walls, and Marguerite sat down on one of them. She leaned back against the cool stone wall and took a long, shuddering breath.

  She did not know what had come over her. The sense of grief and loss had suddenly become overpowering, but Marguerite did not know why. For whom did she grieve?

  ’Twas a question she would not be able to answer until she regained her memory, and that did not seem likely to happen very soon. It had been days since Bartholomew had brought her to Norwyck. Outside of the improvement in her vision, there’d been no other change in her condition.

  Why couldn’t she remember?

  ’Twas frustrating. Memories were right on the verge of her consciousness, but she was unable to get any kind of a hold on them. They escaped her like sand filtering through her fingers, every time she tried too hard to remember.

  She wiped away tears that she’d shed without even being aware of them, and was startled by the sound of clapping at the far end of the chapel.

  “Excellent performance,” Bartholomew said, continuing his mocking applause as he walked toward her. “Worthy of the greatest mummers in all of England.”

  Marguerite refused to dignify his insult with a reply. She stood and turned away so that he would not see the evidence of her tears. He would only make sport of her pain, and Marguerite knew ’twould hurt the worse, especially now that she knew how tender he could be with his sisters.