THE VEXING: A Medieval Romance (AGE OF FAITH Book 6)

by Tamara Leigh

  Thus, now each knew what the other had refused to reveal about the names by which they were known. But it was her faith in him that most unsettled, making him more vulnerable to a woman than he had been since Helene—nay, Beatrix Wulfrith. Some part of him, so weak it turned him from his purpose and good sense, longed for a woman to believe in him. This woman of questionable behavior and much too short acquaintance.

  She tried again to free her hands, but he would not risk her once more loosing them on him as he had loosed his upon her, too much familiarity having impelled him to move her back against the wall.

  “Durand Marshal,” she said on a sigh, “I do not understand how ’tis so, but I feel much for you.”

  He stiffened. She did not speak of what moved the body but what moved the heart. The same as Gaenor had done. And so here he was again—

  Nay. He had cared for Beatrix’s older sister and, for a broken moment in time, desired her. But though what had happened this eve was far different, there could still be terrible breakage.

  “Never have I felt what I do with you, Durand—”

  “Enough! You may think you know where such talk leads, but you cannot conceive of the consequences.”

  She fell silent, then said, “Feel the beat of my heart,” and tried to draw his hands downward.

  “Behave, Beata!” He pressed her hands more firmly beneath his collarbone. “Already I know the beat of your heart—and yet know mine. And there is no good in it.”

  “Why?”

  “Lust moves them. That is all.”

  Beata was surprised by how much she hurt over words meant to convince her that all he felt for her resided in a place distant from the breast. But the hurt was deserved. In her quest to prove she knew him—that Lady Isobel could not be more wrong—she had turned wanton.

  “For this, lust being a great failing of mine,” he said, “the queen has her fun in naming me a monk.”

  “Surely you do not say she allows you to sport with her ladies?”

  “She does not, and I do not.”

  Beata almost laughed. “Is not lust a fairly common sin? And not only for men?”

  “Aye, but what makes it among the greatest of failings is acting upon it, as Lady Isobel knows well.” He released her and strode from the stall.

  Did he mean…? He could not.

  He turned to her, and she wished the bit of light on her face shone more on his. “My lady, each minute that passes disposes us to more talk of what goes between The Vestal Widow and the gallant monk. For your sake, more than mine, let us return to the donjon.”

  She did not move.

  “Come, Lady Beata.”

  “You wish me to believe you prey on young women? Nay, I have frightened you, is all. Lest I am so silly in love I become more of a nuisance, you seek to discourage me.”

  She seamed her lips to allow him space in which to respond, but he did not. Because the man she had tempted in order to prove she knew him had taken advantage of Gaenor Wulfrith? If so, surely he had not lain with the lady…

  She slid a hand up her throat and pressed fingertips to lips fervently explored by his. Had he not stopped, they might now be upon the straw.

  She lowered her hand and gripped it with the other at her waist. “Either I have proven what I set out to prove—that I can vouch for your honor. Or I have proven what I did not set out to prove—though you find me desirable, you are insufficiently moved to divest me of the vestal.”

  He drew a sharp breath. “’Twas a test? For this, you approached me?”

  “’Tis where I started, though I did not intend it to progress as far as it did.” She pushed off the wall. “It seems I am no better than Queen Eleanor’s ladies whose attentions you must ever be—”

  “Almighty!” His bark halted her advance. “What fool are you to play such games, Beata? Were I many a man, I would have—”

  “That is what I say! You are not many a man.”

  “Certes, not with you.”

  She blinked. That was what she had proved? She was not desirable enough? She swallowed hard. “So be it, but though you would not risk your reputation with one such as me, still I will not believe you prey on young women.”

  “No longer,” he said gruffly. “It was ere I served the king that I dishonored my name and knight’s training.”

  Alarm shot through her, but she muffled it.

  No longer, he said, and had he not served Henry for years? Had not the queen entrusted him to deliver Beata to her father? And what of the reassurance Lady Annyn had given her mother-in-law that Durand was not the same as he had been?

  “Were I to believe you were ever so dishonorable,” she said, “I could also believe you changed.”

  “All you must believe is that my great failing went well beyond my failing with you this eve. Hence, its price may never be paid in full.”

  “Then Lady Isobel’s daughter… You say you ravished—”

  “Not ravishment!” His silhouette gained height and breadth. “That I would not do!”

  She took a step back. “Of course you would not. Pray, forgive me. I but try to make sense of what you say and yet do not.”

  When he spoke again, it was with strained calm, “Ravishment is not the only road to ruin, Lady Beata.”

  “I understand.” She did. And prayed he was changed, that it was not a lack of desire for her that caused him to end what they would both regret. “If you would give me a few minutes, I shall compose myself and put my hair in order.” She swept the mess back off her face and shoulders. “As I spent too little effort on it this eve, I should be able to make it appear as it did ere I upset Elias and Sir Rowan’s audience.”

  He turned and strode from sight.

  It took more time to locate the ribbon to secure her braid than to rework the crossings, and further time to accept little could be done to make her mouth appear as if it had not been intimate with another’s. Thus, one good thing came of her disruption of the hall. Upon her return, contrition would provide a good reason to keep her face lowered.

  Durand awaited her outside the stables, doubtless to give Stern’s guard less cause to believe something untoward had happened within.

  He did not offer his arm, but she took it. “Had I not tested you,” she said when he stiffened, “would you not have ensured my footing over unseen ground?”

  Silence.

  “Aye, you would have.”

  He drew her forward, and only when they entered a hall much changed from the one she had fled did she release him. She murmured her thanks, then made her way amongst those who, preparing to bed down earlier than expected, made their curiosity felt.

  A hand settled on her arm as she ascended the first step that would deliver her to the chamber she was to share with Lady Susanna and Lady Beatrix. “Beata.”

  She stared at the toe of her slipper. “I am sorry I ruined everyone’s fun, Elias.”

  “Ah well, they had their fill.”

  She was so grateful for his kindness she nearly lifted her face. “Nay, they had not.”

  “Look at me, Beata.”

  “I am ashamed and tired and long to gain my rest.” She leaned into the stairs, but he gripped her more firmly.

  “Look at me.”

  “Elias—”

  She was unprepared for his finger beneath her chin—more, the blackening of his eye. “Dear Lord, what happened to you?”

  “I would ask the same of you.” His eyes—one wide, the other narrow—considered her mouth. “But though my answer would prove the same as yours—Sir Durand—methinks you were more receptive to your encounter than I who pushed too hard to be the one to return you to the donjon.”

  She sucked a breath, told herself she was a fool to think too much of Durand’s behavior. “It was all my doing—but an attempt to prove something I had no cause to prove. Be assured, Sir Durand takes his duty to the queen seriously.”

  He snorted. “No assurance of that do I require.”

  “Cease, E
lias!”

  He released her. “We will speak more on the morrow.”

  Unlikely. Did he arise to see Durand and her away, there would be little time to converse. “On the morrow,” she said and climbed the stairs.

  Her entry into the chamber was uneventful. As revealed by a single candle on the bedside table that would soon be but a puddle, the other women were abed—Lady Beatrix on the left, her daughter asleep in a cradle alongside, and Lady Susanna in the center, her infant son curled against her chest.

  Amid the dim, Beata crossed to the right side of the bed, removed her gown, and slid beneath the covers. It was a snug fit, but more comfortable once she turned onto her side and hugged the bed’s edge.

  She would not think on Durand—dare not, lest he appear to her in sleep.

  Accursed reality! Ever pushing its way into dreams. Ever causing one to question what was imagined and what was not. Ever making ruin of rest.

  She drew a deep breath, slowly released it.

  A hand touched her back. “You may not believe it, Lady Beata,” Lady Susanna whispered, “but there are better days ahead. The past is not your future.”

  That last was certain, her past having been spent as Conrad’s indulged wife. But better days ahead? Days and years in which to forget the man whose kisses and embraces seemed a place she could call home?

  “I thank you,” she whispered.

  The lady left her hand on Beata’s back, and it was not long before her breathing revealed she slept the sleep of one who loved and was loved in return.

  Back to the wall where he sat on the pallet he had claimed for the night, Durand stared across the shadowed hall.

  On the other side slept Elias de Morville, who was nearly as responsible as Beata for making the queen’s man aware of the lie it was not merely lust which drew him to yet another woman he could not have. Had the troubadour not guessed from the fist taken to the eye that Durand overstepped his duty to The Vestal Widow, he knew it from those few minutes with the lady before the stairs.

  Certes, it was safer for Beata to pass the night at Stern, but not her escort. Far safer it would have been for him to resume their journey to Wiltford. After what had happened in the stables, he could no longer deny he was drawn to one too tall, dark of hair, indelicate, opinionated, loud, and…compassionate toward one such as he.

  He ground his teeth. He hated it had been necessary to reveal his past, hated he had hurt her by implying she was not desirable enough to tempt him beyond kisses and caresses. Still, it was better she did not spend more of her heart on one who had rejected Gaenor’s heart. And better for him. More difficult it would be to lose a woman who did not wish to be lost.

  Thus, he was grateful to Lady Isobel. Whatever was required of him to fulfill his duty to the queen would be less difficult now.

  He dropped his head back against the wall. Pray, Lord, let the Baron of Wiltford’s infant son be of good health that I may quickly depart and not be tempted to hold tight to Beata. Above all, let her not number among my losses.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “I hoped to find you here.”

  The spoon slipped from Beata’s fingers, clattered against the side of the bowl. Looking up from the porridge she had mostly stirred since the cook seated her at the rear of the kitchen, she dropped her feet from the stool’s rungs and stood. “Lady Isobel, I…”

  What was she to say? Having slipped out of bed well before dawn, she had not expected to see any Wulfriths. And hoped that expectation would be met.

  The woman halted, glanced at the porridge. “I apologize for interrupting your meal, but I would speak with you.”

  “Of course.”

  Lady Isobel crossed to the door, beyond which lay a winter garden. Upon Beata’s entrance into the kitchen a quarter hour past, Durand had exited through that door after informing her he would see to the horses.

  Knowing the dark yet lurked there, she faltered. “Can we not speak here?”

  The lady moved her gaze down Beata’s mantle that provided little excuse for remaining indoors. “What I would discuss with you is best done in private.”

  Heart sinking further, Beata followed. As guessed, day had not dawned. The torches on the walls beyond the garden provided the only light by which to know this place that was dead but for the occasional evergreen bush and tree.

  Beata closed the door, and avoiding peering into the darkened corners ahead, clasped her arms over her chest and braved the shadowed face of the woman before her.

  “Lady Beata, I—”

  “Pray, forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to listen in last eve, but when I heard…” She replenished her breath. “Grievously, I trespassed on you and Lady Annyn. I am ashamed of what I said, and more so now I know ’twas I who erred.”

  The lady’s lids narrowed. “How do you know you erred?”

  “Sir Durand assured me he could not give you more cause to dislike him.”

  Lady Isobel’s head rocked back. “Did he?”

  “Aye, but do not think he revealed anything I had not guessed. Indeed, he was reluctant to speak of what he calls his great failing.”

  “I see.” She nodded. “Then I suppose I might be more easily forgiven.”

  “You?”

  “For my own words and behavior. I aspire to be godly, but where Sir Durand is concerned, I oft fail. And my only excuse…” Her sigh clouded the air. “There is no only about one’s beloved daughter.”

  Beata touched her arm. “Of course there is not.”

  Lady Isobel’s gaze flicked to the hand upon her, but she let it be and gave a sorrowful grunt. “Love makes women fierce, especially mothers. One day you will know it yourself.”

  Would she?

  “That is, do you not already.”

  That last was no thoughtless aside. Considering their unfortunate encounter, it begged examination. In defending Durand, she had been fierce, but that did not mean she loved him. Still, she would be a liar did she not accept she was—had been—moving toward something so wondrous.

  “I believe it can be said, Lady Beata, you were most fierce last eve.”

  “Again, I apologize, especially for saying it was unimaginable you raised honorable sons.”

  “’Tis mostly truth. All were very young when their father took them from me to begin their training at Wulfen. Though never would I have admitted it to my husband, he is more responsible for the men they became than I.”

  Such sorrow in that honesty.

  “Regardless, I reflected poorly on our family and could not sleep for the need to right my wrong. Even were we not to be neighbors, I would not wish harsh words to define your stay at Stern.”

  “They will not, my lady, and I pray that should the aid I give my father become permanent, we shall have more occasions to be kinder to each other.”

  The lady considered her. “Though I was wrong in speaking against Sir Durand, who does seem changed, ’tis my hope that when his duty to the queen is done, your fierce heart will be blessed by a heart more fierce than your own.”

  Had her daughter been so blessed? Did Lady Gaenor’s husband feel fiercely for his bride who had not come to him chaste?

  She lowered her hand from Lady Isobel’s arm. “Once Sir Durand returns to France, I am certain all will come right.” That was a lie, further evidencing her feelings for him.

  Dear Lord, she sent heavenward, let this be infatuation only. To my end days, I would not suffer love denied.

  “Forgive me,” a voice tight with anger spun Lady Isobel around. “I did not expect to once more find myself the subject of idle conversation.” Durand strode the winding path from the garden’s gate toward the kitchen.

  As Beata searched through her conversation with Lady Isobel to recall what he might have heard, she noted he brought the dawn with him. It gilded the ends of his dark hair, burnished armored shoulders, absented black pupils from golden eyes.

  If avenging angels existed, they could not present as more formidable—nor appeal
ing.

  He halted a stride from them. “Lady Isobel.” His nod was so slight it was almost disrespectful.

  “Sir Durand, I am glad you are here.”

  His jaw convulsed. “Are you?”

  “Just as I owed Lady Beata an apology, one is due you.”

  His lids narrowed.

  “Be assured, Sir Durand, I do not seek to work further ill upon your character. I wish to make amends for behavior unbecoming a Wulfrith. Pray, forgive me.”

  Beata heard him draw breath through his nostrils. “It is done,” he said, though still his anger was felt, “and I hope one day you may come as near as possible to completely forgiving me so we may be easy in each other’s company as we were when my first offense was gifting Abel a pair of dice.”

  Curt laughter escaped her. “Mayhap in time, Sir Durand. The Lord does delight in surprising us.” She turned to Beata. “Now I wish you Godspeed.”

  Beata thanked her, and when the lady returned to the kitchen, said, “She was gracious.”

  “’Twould seem.”

  “Then why are you still angry? You believe I spoke ill of you?”

  “Elias,” he growled. “He intends to accompany us to Wiltford, and Sir Everard agrees. Your friend did not tell you?”

  She recalled their parting last eve. Elias had assured her they would further discuss Durand. “I believe he tried, but I would not listen. I shall speak to him—”

  “Nay, it is decided and the horses are ready. Do we leave now and set a good pace, you should be reunited with your father by nightfall.”

  Though her belly was almost empty, were she given further opportunity to fill it, she would only push her spoon around. And since Durand had earlier taken her small pack with him, there was no reason to return to the donjon. “Deliver me to my sire, Sir Durand.”

  Eleven years much changed a man. At least they had this one whom she had not seen since he had lifted his frightened daughter of ten and four into the saddle and wished her away from Heath Castle with a sorrowful smile.