by Tamara Leigh
The lady stood, moved to the lantern, and extinguished it. Moments later, the bed creaked with her settling. “Sleep well, Sir Durand.”
Impossible. “Good eve, Lady Beata.”
A single horse, meaning he shared a saddle with the lady. Worse, rather than have her cling to his back, he had placed her in front of him for the safety of his arm around her waist.
I have learned, he tried to talk down his discomfort over too much liking the feel of her. Curvaceous, indeed! And that was the third thing at which he had failed this day.
The first was securing two worthy mounts. The other horse offered for sale was so aged it would have slowed their journey more than having two astride one passably worthy horse.
The second thing at which he had failed was that of gaining tidings of the shipwreck. In the tavern where the lady and he broke their fast, then on the town’s streets, naught was heard of it, and it would have been unwise to broach a subject that could see them pursued once word reached the town. And they might be pursued, regardless. Thus, Durand told the man from whom he purchased a horse that their mount had died on the way to London.
And now this third failure—his body’s response to holding the lady.
It was time to take water. Having kept near the wood to sooner enter it when their path crossed others’, he urged their mount amongst the trees.
“How much farther to London?” the lady asked when he lifted her down beside the stream.
“Though ’tis good any who seek to follow us believe London is our destination, we are going well around the city.”
She took a step back. “But I…”
“What?”
After a long moment, she said, “My brother is there. As it is over ten years since we parted, I hoped to seek him out.”
He suspected there was more to what she told, but he would not waste time questioning her. “I would think you more eager to answer your father’s summons in advance of him receiving tidings of your ship.”
Her eyes widened. “I am ashamed to say I did not consider that.” She pushed a hand back through hair that was ever escaping its braids, the tresses so smooth and silken they did not fare well against wind and restless fingers. “Aye, we must go directly to Wiltford.”
Though that was as he preferred so he might sooner shed himself of the lady—providing her father’s infant son lived—it was not what he suggested nor intended. But it was best she believed it.
He gestured to the trees. “Relieve yourself.”
She did not become flustered as many a lady would, but hurried opposite.
Durand did not expect her to try to escape—at least not here—but he heeded her movements.
A short while later, he once more suffered the discomfort of holding The Vestal Widow in the curve of his body.
And Beata wished that so honorable a man did not mind she was not petite.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Two days of riding. Another night in an inn. At last, Wulfen Castle.
As Durand reined in, Beata shifted beneath his mantle he had earlier drawn over her when the cold air stirred by their ride made her shiver. “Tis sad I do not recognize it,” she said. “When I knew Heath Castle, it was formidable, but it ought to be less so through the eyes of one who is no longer a girl.”
He considered the fortress last ridden upon to enlist the aid of the youngest Wulfrith brother in saving Helene the healer from being tried as a witch. Knowing it best the lady learn the truth of their destination from him rather than the patrol soon to appear, he said, “I would not be surprised if Heath Castle is less formidable.”
She looked around. “What say you?”
He jutted his chin at the great edifice. “That is Wulfen Castle.”
She caught her breath, in a smaller voice said, “Wulfen?”
“I thought it best we stop here first.”
Lest he once more find himself struggling with her atop a horse—all the more likely since he had advanced the importance of reaching Wiltford ahead of word of her ship’s fate—he tightened his hold.
But with an air of fatigue, she said, “The Wulfriths must be told. And I cannot be angry you did not tell me.”
Was she ailing? She of many words had become increasingly quiet these past days, and this morn he had noted her pallor.
“Do you think they…?” She sighed. “Aye, the same as you, they shall hold me responsible if Baron Wulfrith is lost to them.”
The same as I? Durand mulled, and not for the first time acknowledged he was less certain she bore the blame. But before he could further delve such thinking, he first felt—then heard—the patrol.
“Prepare yourself, Lady Beata. We are about to be overtaken.”
“Overtaken?”
Though he longed to bring his sword to hand, it would be seen as an act of aggression. “Fear not. Providing we do not present a threat to those of Wulfen, no harm will befall you.”
Moments later, he guessed three riders from the north, three from the south.
When the patrol appeared, it was with a show of might. These were not boys but young men soon to earn their spurs and a Wulfrith dagger. Mounted on destriers, swords drawn and teeth bared, they thundered out of the trees and drew a noose around the trespassers.
The slightest of them, who was slight only in height, reined in before Durand. “Who goes?” he demanded, the hitch of his upper lip revealing a birth defect his mustache did not entirely conceal.
Durand considered the other five—alert, eyes moving over the man and woman in their midst, blades reflecting the pale light of winter. “I am Sir Durand Marshal, also Wulfen trained, as evidenced by my dagger.” He raised an eyebrow. “Would you have me show it?”
“Squire Gerard,” the leader said, “confirm he speaks true.”
That one urged his horse forward and captured Durand’s gaze. It was a threat, but more importantly, an attempt to read the trespasser’s eyes. Halting his mount several feet distant, he glanced at the lady, back at Durand, then moved the point of his sword to where Durand’s mantle draped his shoulder. He pushed the material aside. “A Wulfrith dagger, Squire Rufus.”
“One truth,” the leader said with enough of a smile to cause his lip to reveal more of its deformity. “Your companion, Sir Durand?”
“Lady Beata Fauvel.”
“Your business?”
“I would speak with the Wulfrith who is in residence.”
It was not a request to be told whether it was Abel or Everard. These squires would not reveal that regardless of the possession of a Wulfrith dagger.
“Again, I ask your business, Sir Durand.”
“I have answered as best I can, Squire Rufus. Do you deliver tidings to your lord that Sir Durand Marshal wishes to speak with him, he will grant me an audience.”
“You perhaps, but as you must know, women are not permitted within our walls.”
“I do know.” Just as he knew there had been exceptions, and now the three brothers were wed, it was possible there had been more. Discreet, of course. “As I cannot leave the lady unattended, Lord Wulfrith will have to come out to me.”
“If he deigns.”
Durand inclined his head. “We thank you for your escort.”
“First, your weapons.”
As Durand reached to his belt, Beata snapped her head around. “You trust them?”
“I was once one of them, my lady. This is how ’tis done.”
Doubt shone from her, but she leaned forward to allow him to unfasten his belt.
Shortly, Squire Gerard laid the steel-weighted leather across his saddle and looked to Durand’s passenger. “Now you, my lady.”
“I carry no weapons.”
“Either you open your mantle to make truth of that, or we do it for you.”
Durand thought he heard her growl, but she snatched open her mantle, causing the squires’ armor to ring as they readied to strike.
“Lady!” Durand said. “They do their duty. Accord them respe
ct and move slowly.”
She sighed. “It is good there are men who do not underestimate the strength and resolve of a woman.”
Remembering the one who had tested Baron Wulfrith on that front—Lady Annyn, now the man’s wife and mother of his children—Durand almost smiled.
Lord, he silently entreated, let him live.
“Naught upon my girdle,” Beata spoke of the belt returned to her this morn.
“Push your mantle back off your shoulders,” Squire Gerard said, “and turn your girdle ’round.”
This time certain she growled, Durand rasped, “Behave, Lady!”
She complied.
“I thank you,” Squire Rufus said. “Now ride.”
Squires all sides of them, Durand and the lady were escorted down the slope that granted a view of Wulfen.
When the fortress once more appeared, a thrill went through Durand—greater than when his family’s home in France came into sight. His years upon Wulfen had been hard and demanding but more rewarding than anything before or since, having shaped him into a knight matched by few.
As expected even in winter, the daylight hours were spent on the training field outside the walls. Squires and pages met at swords and pikes, tilted at quintains, engaged in hand-to-hand combat, and mastered the skill of wielding weapons whilst astride.
Somewhere among them labored Everard or Abel, doubtless aware of visitors before they were seen. The three brothers were exceedingly tall, which allowed Durand to eliminate many of those who trained Wulfen’s charges, but what decided him was the lazily confident stride of one who crossed from the farthest field toward the drawbridge.
Even before the limp became apparent, Durand knew it was the youngest brother alongside whom he had been knighted, and whose friendship he had betrayed. Though their bond could not be restored, that they were no longer enemies was better than once hoped.
Squire Rufus having spurred ahead to give his report, his lord beckoned the escort forward.
Durand bent near Beata. “That is Sir Abel. Whilst Wulfen is in his charge, he is titled Lord Wulfrith.”
She nodded, causing her ear to brush his mouth, Durand to pull back, and her to stiffen.
“Sir Durand!” Abel called as they neared the drawbridge. “Wulfen is pleased to receive one of its own.”
Durand reined in, and Abel assessed the bruised and cut face of one he had once called friend, then that of the lady.
“I thank you, Lord Wulfrith. Though I am about the queen’s business, I have something of import to discuss with you.”
Perspiration darkening his tunic as if it were a summer day, Abel wiped a forearm across his brow and down the side of his face that bore a scar. It was not as unsightly as it had been after he and Durand nearly gave their lives to save his sister, but it surely drew Beata’s regard.
“Squire Gerard,” the Lord of Wulfen said, “return Sir Durand’s weapons, then all make ready for the changing of the watch.”
With murmurs of, “Aye, my lord,” the young men did as bid.
When they departed, Abel said, “This thing of import, can it be discussed here, Sir Durand? As you know, women are not permitted inside Wulfen.”
“It is best told inside.”
The Lord of Wulfen stepped forward and patted the horse’s jaw. “I am guessing what you have to tell accounts for so unworthy a mount.”
“It does.” Durand pushed back his mantle to fit his sword belt, and when it embraced his waist, once more felt fully clothed.
“It appears you are in need of a physician.” Abel raised his eyes from the bloodied tear in Durand’s chausses.
“I would welcome the attendance of yours.” Durand looked to the lady. “Lord Wulfrith, this is—”
“Lady Beata Fauvel,” she said. “The queen’s business.”
Abel’s lids narrowed. “Beata—an affection for Beatrix, is it not?”
“Beatrix is my given name, but I prefer Beata.”
He glanced at Durand. “My youngest sister’s name is Beatrix.”
“So I am told. According to your brother, she and I are quite different.” The lady caught her breath.
Abel frowned. “You speak of Baron Wulfrith?”
Past the grinding of Durand’s teeth, he heard her swallow. “Aye, we met at King Henry’s court in Bayeux some days past.”
“I thought him returned to Stern by now. Of course, it is an ill time of year to cross the channel.”
“It is that which I would discuss with you,” Durand said.
A muscle at Abel’s right eye spasming, he nodded. “Cover your head, my lady. Though our young men will be aware I have let a woman inside, ’tis best your presence is unobtrusive.”
She complied, and Abel led the way into the outer bailey where a dozen pages swung swords at posts set in the ground.
The lady peered over her shoulder. “I am sorry I did not first consider my words.”
As was Durand though it hardly mattered she had sooner laid the ground for the tidings. “’Tis done.”
Rather than order them to dismount at the stables, Abel continued to the inner bailey, surely the sooner to have the woman out of sight rather than over consideration of his old friend’s injury. Still, Durand was grateful. His leg was much improved since they had obtained a horse, but it ached.
At the donjon steps, Durand dismounted, lifted his charge down, and led the lady up the steps.
“Sir Rowan!” Abel called as he entered the hall ahead of them.
An older knight seated at the high table looked up from a ledger. “My lord?”
“We have visitors. Take word to the cook we shall require drinks and viands in the solar.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Also, send for the physician.”
The knight pushed back his chair and stood.
Durand did not know him until they passed before the dais and he saw in the older man’s eyes recognition. Here was the knight who had aided Lady Annyn Bretanne in seeking revenge against the oldest Wulfrith brother—so well, he had put an arrow through the baron. When the lady’s revenge withered and in its place grew love, Sir Rowan had left her to redeem himself through service at Wulfen Castle. And here he remained, well enough trusted to have charge of the accounting.
It was a grave thing to make an enemy of the Wulfriths. Thus, all the more blessed to be gifted a chance to earn forgiveness.
Durand and Beata followed Abel onto the dais. At the curtained wall that accessed the solar, the Lord of Wulfen paused. “Sir Rowan!”
The knight halted at the entrance to the kitchen. “My lord?”
“Rather than the physician…” Abel nodded toward the stairway. “By way of the hall.”
“Aye, my lord.”
For the benefit of Beata, it was cryptic, but Durand was well enough acquainted with Wulfen to know whoever would tend him was abovestairs and was to traverse the hall to reach the solar rather than risk revelation of the castle’s secret passages.
Was it possible she was here? That not one but two women were inside Wulfen?
Glad to be alerted ahead of the appearance of the lady whose gender prevented her from being titled a physician, Durand drew Beata past the curtain Abel held back.
The solar was as spacious and simply furnished as he recalled from when he had squired for the young Baron Wulfrith, nothing to indicate its purpose had changed since the brothers had taken wives.
He smiled. If the one he suspected was here, the tower room beyond the chapel where Lady Gaenor Wulfrith had hidden years past was likely the place from which Sir Rowan would collect her. Doubtless, that room was much changed to allow husband and wife to carry on as married couples were wont to do.
Determined not to envy Abel’s happiness, he halted at the center of the solar and looked to the woman whose face remained beneath her hood. Like him, she had little chance of gaining a spouse so devoted that rules would be broken to keep the lovers close.
Very well, Lord, he acceded. I
envy Abel. And Everard. And…
The baron, for whom he was here rather than bound for Wiltford.
“Make yourselves comfortable whilst I kindle the fire,” Abel said.
Durand handed the lady into the chair nearest the hearth and lowered into the one beside hers.
“These tidings,” Abel said as he added logs to small-tongued flames. “They are of Wulfrith?”
Even with one who knew the Christian name of the head of the family, respect was ever shown him in the presence of non-intimates by referring to him as Wulfrith, which told all one needed to know of his person.
“Possibly,” Durand said.
“Possibly?” Abel retrieved a poker and prodded the logs. “That does not sound of great import.”
“Still, it is something I believe your family should be made aware of.”
Abel turned. “Speak.”
“Four days past, my men and I were returning from Rouen when we happened upon the King of France’s vassals trespassing on King Henry’s lands. As they were in pursuit of Lady Beata and her escort, we set ourselves at them and—”
The curtain rustled, and he looked over his shoulder at a slight, hooded figure.
It was her, as confirmed by a dark red braid visible alongside her neck. Though her face was in shadow, he knew the moment her eyes lit on him. She gasped, dropped her bag, and ran forward.
“Durand!”
Such joy in her greeting. And her face when the hood fell to her shoulders.
He glanced at Abel and, receiving a nod, strode toward the man’s wife.
A moment later, she landed against his chest and wrapped her arms around him. “Too long!” she exclaimed.
Keeping his arms at his sides lest the permission granted him did not extend to an embrace, he said, “Greetings, Lady Helene.”
She put her head back. “Greetings? That is all, dear friend?” She scowled. “We mean more to each other than that.”
He was both heartened and disheartened by her enthusiasm. It salved his soul to be so…
Was it loved? Aye, albeit chastely. But even were her husband not present, he would not be comfortable being familiar with her.
