by Tamara Leigh
What?
As discontented as he was serving the queen, his lot was cast. Or mostly. He could seek release from her service and, were it granted, turn to knight errantry or become a household knight to his brother or another landed noble.
Regardless, his restored friendship with Abel would likely remain distant. And more distant was the possibility of gaining what Abel had with Helene.
Do not hold tight to that which you long for, he told himself as he slowed his mount near the drawbridge. Far less it aches to have it slip through your fingers than torn from your grasp.
“Sir Durand?”
He looked to the lady who drew nearer and raised an eyebrow.
“I am sorry this falls to you, but I would have you know I think you honorable. And worthy.”
He did not want to linger over a face flushed from the cold, nor be moved by how feminine it appeared with wisps of hair caressing her brow, cheeks, and jaw. But once more she appealed as she should not.
Rather, her words, he corrected, and guessed that whatever Helene had revealed to her had not included his sin and betrayal.
“I thank you, Lady Beata, and I pray never shall I give you cause to amend your opinion.”
“As do I.” Interest in her eyes. Far too much interest.
He started to look away, but there was a better means of discouraging her, and if it did not, it might gain him insight thus far denied him. “Now I have proven myself, might so esteemed a knight know the truth about your father’s heir?”
It was she who averted her gaze. “Forgive me, but I have told all there is to tell.”
“Mayhap an heiress,” he said with an edge of sarcasm.
She tucked her chin into the mantle’s collar and said almost too low to catch, “Mayhap.”
Everard was Everard, still as pensive, observant, and slow to rise to emotion. But the latter was present if one knew where to look.
Though Durand had not been close with him, he had grown up alongside Everard the same as Abel. Thus, from the flicker of lids, set of teeth, and folding of fingers into palms, Everard revealed that beneath hair too golden and fine to be gifted a man, his concern for his older brother twisted him as tight as it had Abel.
“That is all there is to tell,” Durand said, “and I regret being the one to speak it.”
Still Everard said naught, having gone silent after closing the three of them in the chamber shared with his wife.
“There is hope, is there not?” Beata said with apology.
Everard moved his gaze to her. No anger. No condemnation. And Durand was grateful the second born was not as disposed as Abel and he to place blame on another.
“Aye, Lady Beata. As Sir Durand concluded, Wulfrith would not have pressed to set sail that day. Thus, we may hope his captain was better versed in the weather than yours, and ’twas another ship that met yours on the rocks.” He drew a deep breath. “Sir Durand, as we have shifting to do to accommodate your charge for the night, I think it best she shares this chamber with my wife and sister.”
The latter being Lady Beatrix D’Arci. “I thank you, Sir Everard, but now that our mounts have been provided for, we shall further impose only to take food and drink.”
A frown narrowed the space between Everard’s eyebrows, and he crossed to the window and laid back the shutters. Though oilcloth covered the opening, it was clear the sun would soon depart. “It is winter, Sir Durand, nearing nightfall, and the closest inn is an hour’s ride. Though I understand your reluctance to pass the night with us, for the lady’s sake, reconsider.”
Everard did understand his reluctance, every bit as much as his brothers. This place that had become Durand’s home following his attainment of knighthood, when the baron had trusted him to serve the women of his family, was no longer and would never again be that—and most obvious Everard’s mother would make it given a chance. But he was right. It was nearing night, and Durand must think first of Beata.
“It seems we shall leave on the morrow.”
“Then either you may share a chamber with me and my sister’s husband or bed down in the hall.”
Though Durand had become easier in Michael D’Arci’s company whilst recovering at the man’s home following the attack that had nearly seen Lady Beatrix murdered, he said, “The hall suits me well.”
Everard closed the shutters and strode to the chair where Beata perched. When she looked up, he said, “I would not alarm the ladies, especially Baron Wulfrith’s wife, who will give my brother another child ere Christmas Day, nor my mother, who is of an age when hearts are easily broken. Thus, until those sent to learn the identity of the second ship return, we shall hold this close, including tale of the downing of your own ship.”
“I shall speak naught of it, Sir Everard, and continue to pray if your brother yet remains in France, his crossing is uneventful.”
He looked to Durand. “Since you serve the queen, it will be expected you had occasion to speak with Wulfrith, and the ladies will ask after him. Thus, a measure of deception is required.”
Durand’s mind already moved in that direction. “I shall be truthful as to our meeting and the charge given me by the queen that required I depart France before Baron Wulfrith concluded his business at court.” Hopefully, he would be forgiven the lie.
Everard started forward, halted, and turned back to Beata. “I trust The Vestal Widow, of whom I heard tale when she was yet The Vestal Wife, will temper her behavior.”
Something that did not bode well flickered across her countenance.
“’Tis a season of celebration, my lady,” Everard prompted, “and let us pray it remains so, but my mother insists on order in her household.”
Durand tensed in anticipation the lady would offend though Everard but prepared her to meet the mother of the formidable Wulfriths.
“As Sir Durand is fond of reminding me to do, I shall behave,” she said and forced a smile. “I thank you for the comfort of this chamber.”
He dipped his head. “Supper is served in an hour. We shall leave you to freshen yourself.”
Durand followed Everard, and before exiting the chamber did what too much encouraged. He looked back.
In the midst of loosed braids, Beata’s gaze awaited his, and something he did not feel for her made itself felt. And more when her lids widened and the smile that made light flicker in her eyes drew his attention to lips more softly curved and parted than when she had smiled at Everard.
Stiffly, he inclined his head. Tightly, he gripped the door’s handle. Firmly, he closed the door. Desperately, he beseeched the Lord, Not again. Not any woman. Not her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Elias!” The moment his name fled Beata, she wished it back. Then there was the impulse to run across the hall to the one whose grin invited her to do so. That she would not have had to wish back, but having unsettled those gathered—thus, failing Everard Wulfrith—and being in need of joy, she reasoned it was too late to keep from making a spectacle of herself.
Worth all the displeasure cast upon me, she told herself as the knight enfolded her and took a quick step back to keep his balance.
“Lady Beata, my eyes do not deceive me!”
Amidst the murmurings of those too proper to express true pleasure, she lifted her face to his. “Elias de Morville,” she sang his name. “What do you here?”
He looked left and right, and though she felt his hesitation over the audience for which he was given no time to prepare, the grin that became a smile was genuine. “I would ask the same of you, dear lady.”
Certain the eyes boring into her belonged to Sir Everard and Durand, who alone knew she was at Stern Castle not as a guest with cause to be light of heart, but as one whose journey to England could bode ill for them, she released her friend and dropped back on her heels.
“I pass through,” she said, and out of the corner of her eye saw the woman with whom he had been conversing reposition the babe on her hip and tilt her head questioningly. “No
w you, Elias. What brings you across the channel?”
He traveled his gaze back up her blue gown and nodded at the woman. “By invitation of my friends, Lady Susanna and her husband, Sir Everard, I am to spend Christmas at Stern. A generous offer, and welcome considering…” He raised his eyebrows.
Though she knew it was past time to rectify behavior that disrespected the Wulfriths’ mother, she leaned near. “I look forward to learning how you escaped your sire.”
“Less and less a feat.” He winked and turned her toward the one beside him. “Lady Susanna Wulfrith, meet my dear friend, Lady Beata Fauvel.”
“Ah!” the woman exclaimed as if with recognition.
Here was how her husband knew of The Vestal Widow, Beata realized. A good tale was a good tale, and Elias too much enjoyed lighting up eyes and hearts not to have shared that of a most unusual wife.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Beata.” There was no falsity in her tone or amber eyes. “Any friend of Sir Elias is welcome.”
Now recognition struck Beata, and she caught her breath. She was privy to how Elias had become acquainted with the Wulfriths though he had given some of the characters imagined names.
Lady Susanna set a hand on Beata’s arm. “Are you well, my lady?”
“I am.” She peered sidelong at Elias, and he smiled sheepishly. Next, she glanced at the Wulfrith dagger he wore—awarded only to young men who had received their squire’s training at Wulfen. For Elias, an exception had been made.
The blonde babe Lady Susanna held gurgled, and Beata touched the dimpled hand gripping his mother’s bodice. “Your son is handsome and a good size. Already he is walking?”
“He tries, but he has only turned eight months. Soon, though, methinks.”
Further evidence of the blood coursing his veins.
“Allow me to introduce you to the ladies of my family ere we are called to meal.” Everard Wulfrith’s wife moved toward the hearth.
As Beata had not looked near upon the others scattered here, her eyes having first found Elias, she considered them now where they stood and sat amidst the finery of the season that saw the hall hung with greenery, lit by dozens of candles, and scented with fragrant herbs.
Lady Susanna’s nephew and his friend, who had accompanied them from Wulfen, were seated at a small table before an alcove. They acknowledged her with nods and resumed their game of chess.
Before the high table were the men. Beata allowed herself a moment to appreciate how handsome Durand looked in a tunic surely provided by one of the Wulfrith brothers. Of a color between gold and tan, its sleeves were gathered at the wrists, its belt emphasizing his trim waist and broad shoulders.
Averting her gaze before making eye contact with him, she was grateful for the smile Sir Rowan bestowed where he stood alongside a handsome, dark-haired nobleman. Though that one was of good height and build, he had not the proportions of the Wulfrith men. Since Beata knew their youngest sister was here, she guessed this was Lady Beatrix’s husband, Michael D’Arci.
To the right of the hearth, children had gathered. More Wulfriths, Beata guessed. The girl of seven or eight was only slightly taller than the oldest of two boys, but the authority she exuded in reprimanding both told they were large for their ages. And before the hearth sat three ladies.
Certes, Baron Wulfrith’s youngest sister was the petite one whose thick, golden hair was worked into braids that looked in no danger of losing their crossings.
Aye, Beatrix D’Arci was far different from Beatrix Fauvel. And in another way. Standing alongside the former’s skirts was a girl child of an age to have just begun walking—if her size and surety of foot were true. And providing the small bulge beneath her mother’s breasts did not lie, she would have a sibling four or five months hence.
Here be babes, Beata mused with a twinge of yearning for what she had expected would not be hers once she settled on her dower property. And still might not be if her father’s fears were unfounded.
She looked to the woman whose age and bearing identified her as the mother of the Wulfrith siblings, next the one whose red and gold bliaut was stretched to its seams’ limits. Baron Wulfrith’s wife, soon to be a mother again.
Ache shot through Beata at the possibility Lady Annyn was a widow and her unborn babe fatherless.
“Sit with us,” Lady Susanna said.
Blessedly, no matter how much the Wulfrith women disapproved of Beata’s entrance, they were gracious—even Lady Isobel, who was said to like an ordered household.
For a quarter hour, during which scores of knights and men-at-arms assembled in the hall to join the Wulfriths at supper, Beata answered questions put to her and did her best to make light of those which sought news of Baron Wulfrith.
Aye, Queen Eleanor had introduced him, and he had been of good health and temperament. He had even accompanied Durand and her to the docks, but that was the last she had seen of him. It was the truth, providing one did not believe omission a lie.
Most grateful Beata had been when the Wulfrith children were summoned and introductions made—until Lady Annyn’s oldest spoke quite seriously of the necessity of her father returning from France before her mother birthed what must be a sister. Then there were Issie’s brothers, the oldest of whom might gain his inheritance far sooner than expected.
Lord, do not take Baron Wulfrith from them, Beata sent heavenward as the meal was called.
When all but the oldest children were passed into the care of women servants to be taken abovestairs, fed, and put to bed, the ladies moved to the high table.
Beata was seated between Lady Isobel and Elias. Though the former mostly conversed with Lady Annyn on her other side, from time to time she addressed Beata in the softly lilting voice that evidenced her Scottish birth.
As Beata scooped up another spoonful of meat-ladened stew she shared with Elias, not for the first time she saw Lady Isobel peer past her daughter-in-law at those on the other side.
Before, Beata had wondered if it was Durand she so intently looked upon—he who made the lady stiffen and lids narrow—but here was proof. The queen’s man met the woman’s gaze, and the smile about his mouth dropped. Then he gave Lady Isobel a curt nod and returned his attention to Sir Rowan.
Beata knew it was not her business to take offense over the other woman’s dislike of Durand, but whatever ill she thought of him, it must be a misunderstanding.
Lady Isobel looked around. “I still cannot conceive of the queen providing you but one knight for an escort, Lady Beata. It is almost unseemly.”
More than almost, but she was being kind. As Beata could not own to the sizable escort that had included Baron Wulfrith and his men, she said, “It is obvious the queen holds Sir Durand in high regard. Fondly, she calls him her gallant monk—”
A harrumph sounded so loud Beata nearly looked past the lady in search of its source. But it was the Wulfriths’ mother who caused heads to turn. Then of a sudden, she laughed and looked to Lady Annyn. “I believe our Issie and Jonas shall enjoy the tales Sir Elias weaves this eve.”
Only when Beata moved her gaze to Durand, who looked between Lady Isobel and her, did she realize her mouth so gaped it must appear she suffered a lack of air.
What went between these two? Why did Lady Isobel dislike and distrust the queen’s man though Abel regarded him as a friend and Everard seemed to like him well enough?
Not your concern, she heard Conrad advise. Stir not the pot.
But the misunderstanding that surely caused Durand to feel unwelcome ought to be set aright.
“As your husband would advise,” Elias warmed her ear, “stir not the pot.”
She laughed as loud as Lady Isobel had, though with sincerity. Deciding not to worry over what others thought of her expression of joy, she swung her head around. “I was thinking the same.”
He grinned. “Many stories here, but where the Wulfriths are concerned, some are best left untold, hmm?”
This was the wiser Elias who ha
d returned to France eight years after vanishing so completely his father had to accept his youngest son had met a foul end. Before his disappearance, the foolhardy youth had several times visited Conrad and regaled the count’s young wife with tales and songs, for which Elias’s father had berated him.
Conrad had been amused but grateful such a son was not his. But when Elias returned six months before Conrad’s passing, boasting knighthood earned at Wulfen, Beata’s husband had been impressed—mostly, for still Elias was given to storytelling and song. Once Conrad had even mused that when his old bones were interred, Beata might find a good second husband in one as compatible as Elias.
She had refused to think there, not only because she wished her life with Conrad never to end, but as much as she enjoyed Elias’s company, her feelings for him were brotherly. Too, such was not possible now the second son had become the heir. Elias must wed well. And even if his controlling father could be thwarted in that, Elias’s feelings for her were as comfortably benign.
“Of course,” he said, “I concur with Lady Isobel it is peculiar Queen Eleanor provided you only one escort.”
Were they alone, she might tell him that story. She shrugged. “Of greater interest is what goes between Sir Durand and the lady.”
He clicked his tongue. “You are stirring, Beata. Put down the spoon.”
She blew a breath up her face. “Injustice chafes me, as well you know, but I shall try to keep my tongue.”
He glanced past her. “Whatever your tale”—he held up a hand to stay her protest—“the gallant monk is bothered over our friendship.” As she looked around, he rasped, “’Tis too late. He now feigns interest in whatever Sir Everard and his wife tell.”
Beata sighed, and as she reached to the trencher, caught movement on Elias’s other side and saw Lady Beatrix lean toward her husband, who smiled and moved toward her.
