by Tamara Leigh
He knew his appearance offended, but just like Beata, what he wore was all he possessed. “I thank you, my lady.”
She smiled and Abel followed her around the tapestry.
Durand heard their whispered voices, a long silence, then a murmur of contentment.
When Abel reappeared, his face was serious, but his mouth less grim. He crossed the chamber and swept aside the curtain wall, more fully admitting the din of boys and young men relaxing after the meal. He commanded all to prepare for bed, and his first and second squires returned to the solar with him.
“A walk?” he asked as the young men cleared the table.
Durand inclined his head. “I shall retrieve my mantle and meet you outside.”
A quarter hour later, they stood on the gatehouse roof and looked out across the land lit by a moon so full it appeared it might soon give birth. And Durand recalled other times he had been here with Abel—first as pages, then squires, lastly knights who more keenly felt the Wulfrith daggers on their belts than their swords.
Regardless that during training toward knighthood the two had gained the majority of their scrapes, cuts, and bruises from each other whilst putting into practice all they were taught, Abel had been so close with Durand that only his brothers were better known to him.
It was he who rent the silence. “I am grieved by your tidings, Durand, and tempted to anger at The Vestal…” His brief smile was white against the night. “…Lady Beata. But as best I can, I shall keep my face to God and prayers to His ears in the hope He will return my brother to us.”
“I am sorry to have borne such tidings, but I thought you ought to be prepared.”
“I am grateful.” Silence slid back between them, then Abel sighed. “I would not have said it did I not mean it.”
Our friend, he had named Durand who, since his great failing, had sought no friendships lest he disappointed—worse, betrayed. “This I know, as I would have you know I am aware of how great your generosity. I did not expect it, did not even hope.”
Abel lifted a hand from the embrasure, turned it up, and closed his fingers toward the heel. “All is breakable,” he said, demonstrating that truth when the gap between fingertips and palm would not be bridged. Then he lifted his other hand which, following injury to the right, had been trained to the sword. The exercises required to effect such facility had been rigorous, subjecting his entire body to learning a different way to wield a lengthy blade.
“However,” he continued, “if the pieces of the vessel are not too far scattered, not too small, not too jagged, and if God is present—as my wife and brother would remind—what is broken can be fit back together.”
As Durand had aspired to do these past years, seeking restoration of his good name and the unlaming of his faith.
Using the hand that could have left him forever broken, his soul discarded, Abel drew the Wulfrith dagger from its scabbard and wrapped his fingers around a hilt thickened to accommodate his altered grip. “Made whole enough,” he said and turned his face to Durand. “Better, it knows the hand of my wife. And those of our sons.”
John and the babe who no longer cried like a girl. Mostly.
Abel returned the dagger to his belt. “Where I am concerned, you are whole enough, Durand.”
Those words—and the familiar use of his name caused the tightness in Durand to loosen further. “I thank you, Abel.”
His old friend nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. “Do not tell my mother, hmm?”
Lady Isobel, who would never forgive the knight who had been entrusted to protect her and her daughters. “Not even had I the opportunity to do so.”
Abel grunted low. “I have a boon to ask of you.”
Durand narrowed his eyes. “If it is in my power, I shall grant it.”
“It means your journey to Wiltford will be delayed another day—mayhap two should Lady Beata require further rest as I believe my wife will insist upon.”
“Tell.”
“With the impending arrival of those who come to collect their sons for the Christmas celebration, I cannot leave Wulfen, nor thereafter, there being a good number who will pass the season here.”
Most years Durand had himself remained, the crossing to France ever uncertain in winter.
“Thus, if word of the identity of the second ship does not come ere your departure, and I think it unlikely, I wish you to pause at Stern Castle.”
Hence, the opportunity to reveal to Lady Isobel that her son believed Durand was whole enough. What had loosened began to tighten. It was not only Abel’s mother Durand wished to avoid, though she was reason enough to keep his distance. Her daughters and their families might also be at Stern to celebrate the Lord’s birth. Though Durand had made his peace with both sisters—more importantly, they had made their peace with him—it was best not to stir up the past.
“Hopefully,” Abel continued, “Wulfrith will be there, having arrived safely in England and gone directly to Stern for the birth of his child. If he is not…” Abel slowly nodded. “I would have you deliver your tidings to Everard, who has journeyed there for the celebration. If our eldest brother is lost to us, Everard will administer the barony until Wulfrith’s heir is of an age to assume his title. Will you grant me this?”
At Durand’s hesitation, Abel said, “Methinks Beatrix and her family are there now, but as involved as Christian Lavonne is with administering his lands, ’twill likely be nearer Christmas Day before he and Gaenor arrive—a sennight or more.”
So easily read, an unpleasant side-effect of friendship. “I do not believe my telling of events would be of greater benefit than words on parchment,” Durand said.
“I shall compose a missive, but methinks if the tale must be told, Everard would hear it from you so you might answer his questions.”
It would be awkward, and more so in the company of Beata, but it was a small favor, especially after what had been gifted him. “I grant it, Abel.”
“I am glad. Now, I have matters that need tending before I can gain my bed.” He turned from the embrasure toward the steps to the outer bailey. “And I am sure you would appreciate a good night’s rest.”
He would, having slept lightly at the inns. “Aye, but I also have a missive that needs writing, and which I will entrust to you to arrange for its delivery to the queen.” Not only must he inform Eleanor that The Vestal Widow and her gallant monk had survived the shipwreck, but that the missive to the lady’s father was lost. Another would have to be sent to the Baron of Wiltford.
“Of course,” Abel said.
Beneath the regard of the squires who manned the walls, keeping watch for things that should not move in the night, Durand and Abel did not speak again until they ascended the donjon’s steps.
“I do not seek to learn the exact nature of the charge given you by the queen, Durand, but your defense of Lady Beata makes me question if you are once more in danger of being tempted to save a woman whose sacrifice appears to be of far less benefit to her than others.”
Like Helene, he suspected enough that he had good cause to ask. “Be assured, I will not betray my liege again nor subject your family to further dishonor for having trained up one unworthy of a Wulfrith dagger.”
Abel halted before the doors. “’Tis good your mind is turned that way, but that does not absolve you of doing harm.”
“Harm?”
The torch to the left of the doors showed Abel’s struggle. “Rosamund,” he finally said.
His first wife, whom he had not wished to wed, and having done his duty, nearly paid with his life. Were there any doubt he had guessed the queen’s interest in Beata, it was no more.
“As I know you would not have me be disloyal to the queen, what do you advise, Abel?”
“Certes, not that you act as you did with Gaenor. That served none well—for a time was the ruin of both of you.”
“I need no reminder,” Durand said sharply.
Abel drew a deep breath. “If ever you find y
ourself in a similar situation, think it front to back and back to front. Find another way.”
Had there been another way? Durand almost laughed at asking himself so foolish a question. With Gaenor, there had been another way—to not allow resentment to guide him…to leave her be…better, to confess his sin and face the Wulfrith wrath far sooner than he had.
He nodded. “I do not foresee making use of your advice where Lady Beata is concerned, but I appreciate it.”
Abel considered him. “One more thing, Durand. No matter what you are moved to do, if you believe your are in the right, ask for help—and not only from God.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
She did not wish to know what lay beneath the leaves. Still, she should not have yanked herself up out of the dream. She should have braved the crimson-splattered layers—swept them aside and looked long enough to know what they hid. Perhaps then her frightening night travels and disturbing day flashes would once more recede.
“’Tis good to see you are no longer abed,” the increasingly familiar voice of Lady Helene heralded her entrance.
Beata took a step back from the window whose shutters she had cracked open only enough to permit her to look out upon this place forbidden women. She turned. “I am much recovered and grateful your husband agreed I may stay another night.”
“He respects my judgment.” The lady set a bundle on the bed. “Besides the cloths you requested”—she turned back a corner of homespun fabric—“I brought a gown, chemise, and hose.”
When the folded garments beneath the strips of linen were revealed, Beata said, “I appreciate your kindness, my lady, but I am a hand taller than you and at least a hand wider in the waist.” And then there were her breasts. Though Lady Helene was fairly endowed, not as much as Beata.
“Certes, you possess more of a figure than I, but the gown and chemise can be adjusted.”
Unfortunately, only so much would laces cinch and loose a garment. “I fear you are too hopeful.”
When the Lord of Wulfen’s wife shook out the blue gown, further protest ran to the back of Beata’s mouth and she smiled. “You have birthed a babe, my lady.”
“A year past, though I continue to wear these gowns since the bodices better fit a nursing mother.”
Beata blinked. “Your child is here with you?”
“Aye, though not as forbidden as I.”
“A boy, then.”
“’Tis so. And too soon, rather than visit he will come to live at Wulfen and train the same as our older son. It will be no easy thing to let him go, but Lord willing, I shall have a daughter to occupy me—or more boy babes as the Wulfriths are prone to bring into the world.” She held out the gown. “Hold it against you so we may see how much length is needed.”
When the lady determined just under a hand’s width of material would suffice, she said, “Has your menses begun?”
“Nay, but soon.”
“You are certain you do not wish me to prepare a draught?”
“My flux does not overly trouble me. At worst, it makes me uncomfortable and less inclined to talk and laughter.” She raised her eyebrows. “For that, many a man—and woman—is grateful.”
“I am intrigued.”
“And I am sure Sir Durand can be persuaded to satisfy your curiosity.” Beata lifted a rolled strip from the bed and started toward the garderobe. “He is among those who do not approve of me.”
When she stepped back inside the chamber, Lady Helene beckoned from the window. “Come see our John.”
Beata halted alongside her, and the lady opened the shutter wider, letting in more cold air. “There he is, just come out from beneath the portcullis.”
Easily noted since the boy who appeared to be near ten years aged was one of only a few youths in the inner bailey, unlike a quarter hour past when those trained at Wulfen had streamed to the donjon for the nooning meal.
The lady sighed. “It does not bode well he is late to meal, and from the drag of his feet, he was made to run the land before the castle.”
“Punishment?”
The lady glanced at Beata. “At Wulfen, it is called a lesson—correction meant to guide a boy during his training, then a man so he remains worthy of every year gifted him.”
Hence, the reputation for which this place was esteemed, Beata reflected and leaned nearer to follow the progress of the lady’s son toward the donjon.
“He is a good boy,” Lady Helene continued, “but sometimes he forgets all that is expected of him.”
“I wager more is asked of a Wulfrith.”
“Aye, and more often than not, John makes his father proud. Oh, there is Sir Durand!”
With eagerness that would shame her were she closely observed, Beata swept her regard to the knight who strode beneath the portcullis into the inner bailey and called to the boy.
“Certes, John longs to hasten to him,” Lady Helene said, “and the temptation is greater with few to bear witness, but he controls himself.”
Beata recalled the permission Abel had granted Durand to embrace his wife and his acknowledgement the knight was as a brother to the lady. “Your son is fond of Sir Durand,” she said as the queen’s man came alongside the boy, set a hand on his shoulder, and bent near.
“So fond that had not difficulties between my husband and me resolved, John could have been content with Durand as a father.”
Beata startled. “Lord Wulfrith is not John’s father in truth?”
The lady laughed. “He is, though not in blood. Like you, I was widowed young.”
But unlike Beata, she had not been vestal, had given her first husband a child. “You have been blessed, Lady Helene.”
“That I will not argue, nor that it was with Sir Durand’s aid the Lord made it possible. Now, since I do not think you will ask it, I will give answer. Had it not been possible for me to wed Abel Wulfrith, and had Sir Durand offered to take me to wife, methinks eventually I would have accepted.”
Then there was much to their tale. But how much? And what had—or did—Durand feel for her?
“He has his failings—do not all men and women?—but he is honorable, Lady Beata.”
Her heart swelled as she watched Durand and the boy mount the steps. When they went from sight, she said, “This I know.”
The lady reached to shut out the cold. “Just do not…” Her smile was strained. “No matter what tales are told of him, do not forget what I first told.”
Curious. “Though I doubt I shall have occasion to hear any speak against him, I will not forget.”
Lady Helene averted her gaze and closed the shutters. Much she had revealed, but there was something she did not. And Beata thought she might have occasion to hear others speak ill of Durand.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
She made him uncomfortable—rather, more uncomfortable. He had been in a heightened state of awareness since she had first dragged him into her mess.
This morn, after two nights’ stay at Wulfen, during which he had not seen Beata, he noted her improved appearance. Were she the sort to whom he was attracted, he would think her becoming in a blue gown altered and laced to fit a figure far different from Helene’s. Too, though surely by basin rather than tub, much of the ill befallen her since the day of their first meeting had been washed and brushed away. Her skin glowed and hair was so admired by the sun that its light lingered amid dark braids whose crossings had, unsurprisingly, loosened during the ride.
But the appeal of the one who should not appeal did not make him as uncomfortable as the way she had looked at him whilst they broke their fast in the solar before departing Wulfen. And he had become more discomfited when Helene leaned near and whispered that she very much liked Lady Beata.
What had she told The Vestal Widow? More importantly, how was he to undo whatever had been done? Were he at court, he would avoid the lady. If that did not suffice, the queen would discourage her attentions—once Eleanor had her fill of amusement. But there was no avoiding the lady and no queen. An
d now with Stern Castle before them, his unease increased.
He glanced around at Beata where she was mounted on one of two horses Abel had provided to speed their journey. Her gaze was forward as it had mostly been since he had informed her they would not ride directly to Wiltford.
She had not seemed surprised, but the return of vibrancy that had seen her more conversant than since their arrival at Wulfen had dimmed. Just as the prospect of facing a gathering of Wulfriths held no appeal for him, it held none for her.
Though his defense of her caused Abel to concede the difficulty of holding her responsible for any ill that might have befallen his brother, once more she would face judgment.
“Sir Durand!”
He turned in the saddle, causing the armor Abel had given him to sound its song of metal on metal. “Judas?” he prompted the boy who, a few years older than John—though of a size he seemed twice as many years removed—also trained at Wulfen.
“May I ride ahead?”
Doubtless, to sooner reunite with his aunt, who had wed Everard Wulfrith a year and a half past.
Durand surveyed the winter-bitten land again. Seeing and sensing no threat, he moved his regard to the castle with its lowered drawbridge that accommodated villagers whose business at Stern had begun to conclude with the passing of day. “’Tis well with me, providing your escort does not object.”
“Sir Rowan does not. He but told I should also seek your permission.”
“Then ride and deliver word to your uncle that Sir Durand Marshal requests a private audience.” Hopefully, rather than Everard, Baron Wulfrith would receive him, having arrived in England and ridden directly to Stern.
Judas inclined his head, and his friend and he put heels to their mounts.
Fine horsemanship, Durand noted and approved of how the mature and confident boy had grown more so since Durand had accompanied the queen to Stern to settle disputes in her husband’s name—one of those disputes being whether Judas de Balliol was his father’s heir. Eleanor had determined he was.
Now here Durand was again, the bearer of tidings that would make him even less welcome were it Everard who received him. Regardless, afterward Beata and he would take refreshment and depart for the nearest inn from which they would set out for Wiltford on the morrow. God willing, he would soon discharge his duty and…
