Bart looked up to discover Marguerite watching him with watery eyes as she hugged Eleanor to her breast. Her chin trembled as she struggled for control. “Get Alice Hoget over here, Matheus,” he said to the man next to him.
A few minutes later, Alice crouched down beside him.
“M’lord,” she said. “Symon’s wife is on her way. Would ye waylay her a bit? Ye know how fretful she is. She’ll be more hindrance than help until the men can move him to his cottage. I’ll do what I can here, but…”
Bart nodded. He glanced around, looking for Marguerite, and located her beside the wall, talking to yet another injured man. She had to be chilled, wearing only a thin gown and kirtle. It could not possibly keep her warm enough in the wintry air. What had she been thinking, giving her cloak away as she had?
Bart turned quickly. He would not allow himself to be overly concerned about her warmth or well-being. If she wanted to give away her cloak and every other stitch of clothing she wore, then she was welcome to do so.
A group of housewives scurried toward him, Symon’s wife among them.
“Mistress Anne,” he said, waylaying her.
“My Symon…is he h-hurt bad, m’lord?” The woman’s face was blotchy, her eyes red from weeping, and she hadn’t even seen the damage yet.
“Aye, he is,” Bart replied. “Some of the men are going to carry him to your cottage,” he added reassuringly. “Mayhap you should return home and see that all is ready when he arrives.”
She did not seem capable of understanding what he’d said, but one of the other women took her arm and led her away.
The village wives cared for their injured men. There were buckets of clean water and cloths for cleaning the bloody scrapes, and the women had brought cloth for bandages, too. The worst injury besides those of Alrick and Symon was a broken arm, which Marguerite tied to the man’s chest to keep him from moving it.
When Bart looked her way again, he saw that she was absently rubbing her hands up and down her arms in an attempt to keep warm.
Damnation!
Bart was half tempted to ignore her discomfort. Instead, he stalked over to his horse and yanked the pack down, drawing out a blanket. He carried it to Symon, pulling Marguerite’s cloak off and replacing it with the blanket. Then he carried the cloak to the foolish woman.
Her back was to him as he approached, and he startled her when he slipped the cloak around her. She reached up and caught it at her shoulders, meeting his hands there. Neither of them breathed for a moment as a shock of awareness ran through them.
Marguerite leaned into him and Bart felt her entire body trembling against his. He went taut with excitement and arousal.
She remained motionless for only a moment before stepping away and turning to him. “This…” she gestured around her “…my lord, this is terrible. How…why did this part of the wall give way?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he replied. “But I’m going to find out.”
“Poor Alrick. And Symon. Is there anything more we can do for them?” Marguerite asked. “I feel so helpless.”
“No,” Bart replied, though he did not think she’d been helpless at all. She had discovered Alrick under the rubble, then managed to comfort several of the injured men before their wives came to tend them.
Aside from Alrick, Bart was not at all sure he appreciated seeing her hands on those other men.
He shrugged off that notion and walked back to the disaster site, looking for his bailiff, Thom Darcet, and the reeve, Edwin Gayte. The two men would have to cooperate with Sir Walter to determine the cause of the collapse. For Bart intended to get this wall finished—without further mishap. ’Twas Norwyck’s main hope of defense against Lachann Armstrong’s frequent raids.
Bart’s only other option was to step up his own offensive, which was something he was loath to do. He’d seen enough of bloody battles to last a lifetime.
Chapter Eight
Eleanor sat perched upon Bartholomew’s mighty warhorse and rode back to the keep in a grand style. Marguerite walked beside Bartholomew, who led the horse by its reins. He’d said naught since hoisting his sister onto the saddle, but walked quietly, brooding over the collapse of his wall and the injuries of the men working there.
He truly cared about those men. He cared about the protection that the wall would give his people.
Marguerite stole quick glances at him. She could not keep her heart from going out to him. There had been too much tragedy here at Norwyck in the last months, and pain and worry were evident in the lines on his face.
Bartholomew Holton was not the cruel, unfeeling warlord she’d thought him when she’d first awakened at Norwyck. Rather, he was a bereaved man, a caring brother, a betrayed husband.
“My lord!” called Sir Walter, hurrying toward them across the open bailey. Marguerite had been introduced to the old knight, and had spoken to him briefly upon a few occasions since then. He bowed to her and to Eleanor, then said to Bartholomew, “What has happened? The men said—”
“What they told you is true,” Bart replied, lifting Eleanor down. “The last portion of wall collapsed, injuring several of the workmen. The worst is Alrick Stickle. He was crushed beneath the wall when it fell.”
The older man crossed himself and said something too quietly for Marguerite to hear. “Is there aught I can do?” he added.
“Aye. Mediate between the bailiff and reeve and see if you can determine what went wrong with the construction.”
“Aye, my lord,” Walter said. “I’ll see to it right away.”
“And see that Alrick’s wife and Master Symon’s family lack for naught,” Bartholomew said. “Send provisions to their cottages and see that they are given whatever help is needed.”
“I’ll take care of it, my lord,” Walter said. He patted Eleanor’s bright red head and gave a short bow to Marguerite. Then he took the reins of Bartholomew’s horse and walked across the bailey toward the stable.
“What made the wall collapse, my lord?” Marguerite asked.
Bartholomew shook his head. “Bad mortar, mayhap. Or possibly the way the rocks were stacked, large atop small…. ’Twould make it unstable.”
“Master Darcet and Master Gayte are always quarreling about the mortar,” Eleanor said, walking between Marguerite and Bartholomew, and holding the hand of each. Her eyes were wet and her nose still dripped from weeping.
Bartholomew raised one dark eyebrow, and Marguerite detected a subtle shrug of his shoulders. Even if the two men did not agree on the mixture, Marguerite could not imagine that either one would intentionally try to weaken the wall.
“Sir Walter will determine what went wrong,” Bartholomew said.
“Tell us about the raid, Bartie!” Eleanor said, changing the subject entirely. She freed one of her hands and wiped her face. “Did you get all our livestock back?”
“Aye.”
“Did you kill many Armstrongs?”
“Nay.”
“Did you go a’wenching?”
Bartholomew stopped abruptly. He turned an icy gaze upon Eleanor. “What did you say?”
“Henry s-said that all knights go a’wenching after b-battle and that he’s—”
“Enough! Enough!” Bartholomew said. “’Tis unseemly talk for a maid.”
Marguerite felt her face heat as Eleanor tipped her head down and looked at her shoes. ’Twas the first time she’d ever seen the child cowed. Bartholomew took her hand again and continued toward the keep. The muscles in his jaw clenched once or twice as they walked. “Henry should not be talking to you of such…There are things that only…”
He made a face of utter frustration and looked at Marguerite, realizing his mistake instantly.
“Men often do things that ladies are expected to ignore, Eleanor,” she said. “Though if I had a husband, and he went a’wenching, he would not be welcome in my…abode…for a very long time.”
Bart watched Marguerite’s retreating form, a sma
ll smile quirked the side of his mouth. Her fire heated his blood like no other. ’Twas true that some of the men had gone wenching after the raid. But Bart had refrained, only because he could not raise sufficient interest in any of the available women.
There was only one that he wanted.
“Is Lady Marguerite angry?” Eleanor asked.
“Nay, I don’t believe so,” he replied.
“Then why did she go off like that?” the child said. “She seemed angry.”
“I think she just wanted to make a point.”
Eleanor ignored her brother’s remark, but continued watching the ground as they walked, lost in her own thoughts. “Do you think she’ll go away and…Will she talk to Dùghlas Armstrong like Felicia did?” she finally asked.
Bart stopped abruptly and looked down at his sister. How could he answer such a question? What man ever knew what a woman was thinking, or what she would do? Bart would never have guessed Felicia capable of cuckolding him while he was away fighting the Scots, yet that was exactly what she had done.
She’d gone to Dùghlas Armstrong’s bed, had borne his bastard child.
“I pray not,” he finally replied, in a deceptively calm tone. Marguerite was out of sight now, though Bart kept his eyes trained upon the spot where he’d last seen her. ’Twas likely she’d gone for a stroll in the garden.
“Why do the people call Felicia ‘Norwyck’s whore’?”
Bart stopped abruptly. He’d heard the term once or twice, but was appalled that Eleanor had, too. He crouched down in front of her. “People oft say things that are better left alone.”
“What does it mean, Bartie?”
He chewed the inside of his cheek and wondered how to answer her. “It means she was too friendly with a man who was not her husband.”
“The Armstrong bastard?”
“Eleanor, you must guard your tongue,” he said, arising. He jabbed his fingers through his hair and wondered if Ellie’s strange questions would ever cease. They began to walk again. “Certain words are not appropriate for a young lady to say, and bastard is one of them.”
“Is Henry going away to foster?” she asked, moving rapidly from subject to subject, as was her way. Bart was glad he did not have to dwell upon her earlier questions, yet this was not an easy one, either.
He let his breath out slowly. “I’m considering it.”
“But where would he go? Far away?”
“Mayhap not so far,” Bart replied, though far enough that they would not see him for years on end.
Eleanor continued her chatter until they reached the keep. ’Twas with relief that Bart left her with Nurse Ada and went to his chamber to bathe.
And to consider the best way to get Marguerite into a more compliant mood.
She’d become quite prickly at the mention of wenching, and Bart could only surmise that she did not like the notion of him with another woman. ’Twas an intriguing thought.
Mayhap he should send for her to attend his bath.
Naked, he stepped into the tub, and continued to stand as he washed away the grime of battle. He was weary, but his skin was exquisitely sensitive as he ran his hands across his chest, his buttocks, his groin. He thought of Marguerite’s soft hands, and all too easily imagined his reaction to her caresses.
He shuddered and tried in vain to channel his thoughts in another direction.
’Twas no use. He would not rest until he’d had her.
There had to be some way to coerce her to his bed. Though she had avoided him in the days prior to his raid upon the Armstrong laird, ’twas past time he made some progress with her. He knew she was not indifferent to him—her responses to his kisses were proof of that. Mayhap an extra mug of wine this eve would put her in a mood to be seduced.
In any case, he would not—nay, he could not—wait much longer for her to come to him. He was driven to distraction by the memory of her mouth under his, of her touch upon his skin. Thoughts of her soft, feminine body plagued him, and Bart decided he would allow her to keep her distance no longer.
He rinsed the soap from his body, then shaved, combed his hair and dressed in tunic and hose. When he left his chamber and headed for the great hall, he knew his family would already be gathered for supper. And Marguerite would be with them, not exactly indifferent to him, but not quite ripe for the plucking.
The fire blazed in the huge fireplace, all the wall sconces were lit, and light from the chandelier over the table sparkled merrily. A number of Norwyck knights were gathered, too, to celebrate their victory. Judging by the gaiety of the men, they had already begun to drink to the success of the previous night’s adventure.
Bart allowed himself a smile. It had been a highly enjoyable venture, besting the Armstrong at his own game. Norwyck men had routed their missing livestock without harming a single one of the young Armstrong lads guarding the enclosure. Bart had judged them too young to die over a few cows.
And he knew that, by their sparing them, Lachann Armstrong would be enraged. He would not like to think of his enemy stepping in and taking his bounty, with nary a drop of blood shed.
Confident of other victories tonight, Bartholomew stepped over to the additional trestle tables that had been set up in the hall, and greeted his men. Some of them drank to his success, others patted his back and offered congratulations.
When servants began to carry trays of food into the hall, Bart turned to take his place at the dais where his family would take their meal.
Marguerite was not among them.
He quickly glanced toward both ends of the table, but did not spot her. He turned around and searched every corner of the hall, but she was not to be seen.
“Our food grows cold, Bart,” Henry said. “Come and sit so we may begin.”
Scowling, he climbed the dais and took his place, allowing the chaplain to say the prayer. When everyone had begun to eat, he turned to Eleanor. “Where is Lady Marguerite?” he asked.
“I thought she was with you, Bartie,” Eleanor replied.
Bart leaned forward and spoke to John. “Do you know where Lady Marguerite is?”
“Nay, Bart.”
He turned then to Kate at his left, even though he doubted she’d have an answer for him. “Kate, do you know why Lady Marguerite is not with us?”
“Why would I, Bartholomew?” his sister replied. “’Tis not up to me to watch what she does, where she goes.”
Bart felt his jaw clench. This was not at all what he had planned for the evening. Where could she have gone? The last he’d seen her, she’d been headed in the direction of the castle garden, but ’twas dark now and cold outside. Surely she had not been angered by the wenching discussion to the point of freezing herself to death.
Nay, she must have taken a tray in her chamber. That suited him just as well. When supper was finished, he would climb to the tower and let nature take its course.
Marguerite held the youngest of Symon Michaelson’s seven children in her arms while she stirred the pot hanging from the hook in the fireplace. There was plenty of food for this family and the families of the other injured men, thanks to the castle kitchens.
Earlier, she’d sat quietly with Alrick’s wife, and watched over the poor man with her, but there’d been no sign of improvement. When the woman’s neighbors came, Marguerite had left.
Here, poor Symon was laid low with his ruined leg, but sleeping now with the aid of a powerful potion administered by Alice Hoget. The old healer had needed the help of several men to pull Symon’s leg straight, and had managed to splint it with two stout boards. ’Twas a serious injury, for if the man’s leg did not heal straight, he would be crippled, and hard-pressed to provide sufficiently for his family.
Symon’s wife hovered about, weeping and twisting her apron in her hands. She was entirely useless in helping with Symon’s care, and she hardly remembered her children. So ’twas fortunate that Marguerite had stopped in after visiting the other families, to see if there was aught she could do t
o help.
The children were frightened for their father. Their mother’s frantic behavior did not reassure them, but Marguerite did all she could to calm their fears. She set each of the older children to tasks to take their minds off their father’s pain, and while they were occupied, she got their meal on the table.
The activity felt perfectly natural to her.
Each child was given a bowl of thick soup and a slice of bread. They sat silently together and ate their food, the elder ones helping the younger, while Marguerite went to Symon’s wife and spoke quietly to her.
“Anne,” she said. “You must feed the bairn.”
Anne’s nose ran and her eyes were red from weeping. “I don’t think I can, m’lady.”
“Of course you can,” Marguerite countered, though she knew no such thing. She dragged a chair to Symon’s bedside and bade Anne to sit. Then she handed the bairn to his mother and helped her arrange her bodice so that the child had access to her breast.
The activity began to calm Anne, so Marguerite remained crouched in front of her and continued speaking of her children. She stroked the infant’s downy, black hair as she spoke, and allowed him to catch her finger within his tiny fist.
In so doing, she knew with a certainty that she had never experienced this kind of intimacy with a bairn. The children whose faces came to her at odd times every day could not be hers. Nay, she would surely remember if her own infant had suckled at her breast.
’Twas both a relief and a disappointment.
“Mum?” the smallest of the children asked as she slid off her stool and came to stand next to Marguerite.
Anne looked down at her daughter. “Aye, Abby,” she said in a wavering voice.
“Will Papa get up soon?”
Marguerite pulled the little girl into a loose embrace. There was naught she could say about Symon’s condition without lying to her. She lifted the child into her arms. “We shall pray for him, Abby, and then God will take care of him.”
She carried the little girl back to the table, where the rest of the children were just finishing. Together, they cleared away the remnants of the meal and cleaned their bowls.
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