by Tamara Leigh
Though Beata had known his first duty was to his nephew who too slowly grew into his title, she had so resented that he would not accompany her on the journey—over land, over sea, into the bed of an old man—she had not returned his smile. Instead, she had held so tight to her saddle’s pommel she would have strangled it were it a living thing.
“Beata!” her aged sire finally responded to the lowering of her hood. Then there on the drawbridge to which he had been summoned at the setting of the sun, he dropped to his knees and gripped his head in his hands.
She so quickly dismounted it surprised she kept her balance long enough to reach his side. “Father!” She flung her arms around him.
All of him shaking, he wept. Though not so hard a man he had been difficult to love, never had she seen such an outpouring of emotion—not even upon her mother’s death.
She looked around. Her escort had dismounted and stood a stride back. Hands on sword hilts, their eyes were fixed on the knights who had accompanied the baron outside the castle. Throughout the ride, the air between Durand and Elias had been strained, but in this they were united.
She put her mouth to her father’s ear. “I have come home. Now speak to me.”
“My Beata,” he choked. “My only hope.”
She caught her breath. Then what she had prayed would not happen had? And if Durand heard, did he also suspect?
Lowering her voice further, she said, “My escort—”
He lifted his head so suddenly, he nearly clipped her nose. Grasping her arms, he pulled her close and searched her face with eyes so red and swollen she did not think these his first tears of the day.
Though his loss tempted her to cry, foremost for the poor babe and its parents, no self-pitying tears would she shed over what was now expected of her. Still, she would seek to convince her brother, Emmerich, he was the better choice of heir.
“You live,” her father gasped, confirmation he had received word of the shipwreck. “Mere hours ago, you were dead to me, just as—”
“All that matters is I am here and well. For that, we owe all to the queen’s man.” She nodded over her shoulder. “Sir Durand Marshal.”
Realization slid into his eyes, and he drew a breath that put his shoulders back. “How will I ever thank the queen?”
He knew as well as she how Eleanor wished to be shown gratitude.
“Welcome home, Daughter.” He kissed her cheek, then raised her with him and turned to her escort. “Sir Durand.”
Of course Durand suspected her father’s infant son had died. It was in his eyes. Might even be certainty.
“Marshal, hmm?” her father said. “Kin to William Marshal?”
“So distant, my lord, you could be forgiven for naming it a lie.”
“Well, since you have safely delivered my daughter, methinks you are to be as highly regarded.”
Durand smiled tightly.
Beata’s father frowned. “Have we met?”
“In passing, Baron Rodelle. Years ago, and only for a short time, I served the keeper of Firth Castle.”
“Ah, and now you serve the queen. Impressive.”
When Durand did not respond, Beata looked to Elias, winced over his bruised eye, and said, “Sir Elias de Morville, Father—a friend of mine and my departed husband. When Sir Durand and I paused at Stern Castle, I was surprised to find he was the Wulfriths’ guest. Generously, he offered to—”
“The Wulfriths,” her father said with an edge of the old resentment over his nephew being dishonorably returned to Wiltford. “Long it has been since I had occasion to sit at table with that family—”
“Baron, what tidings did you receive of the wreck of your daughter’s ship?” Durand asked what she was also eager to know.
“Tidings most distressing. But look, my Beata is here! Answered prayer I did not pray for the futility of begging what could not be given.”
“Baron Rodelle—”
“Come, ’tis too cold to converse outside, and your bellies surely ache with hunger, your throats with thirst.”
“Father, about the shipwreck—”
“It can wait.” He patted her hand and led her past the gatehouse into the outer bailey.
While Durand and Elias gave their mounts into the care of stable boys, Beata’s father rasped, “Not for nothing did I warn you to be discreet in departing France and guard well your purpose in returning to England.” He glanced at her escort. “This bodes ill.”
For what was required of her. “As told by the tears you shed ere our arrival, I assume your infant son has passed.”
She heard him swallow. “Three days gone. A terrible enough loss, but when word came of your shipwreck this morn…” He shook his head. “I feared for my heart.”
“I am sorry. How fares your wife?”
“Once more, she grieves—will not move from our bed.” He sighed. “Our babe died in her arms. Poor lass.”
Lass, indeed, Beata disdained. Three babes in less than three years, and if the girl was ten and six, it would be of recent attainment. Beata had wed nearly as young, and if not for Conrad’s honor, her fate could be the same as her father’s wife. In that moment, she resented him more than when he had made chattel of her.
He returned his attention to Durand and Elias. “Most unfortunate this.”
“More unfortunate ’twould be had I not Sir Durand’s escort. Though you might have no body to bury, I would be as dead as Sir Norris.”
“Such a loyal man,” he said as if he did not catch her tone. “I am sorry to lose him. To the sea, aye?”
“He was swept away before my eyes—is as dead as the captain you paid to deliver me across the channel.”
“What of the two knights who accompanied him?”
“I will speak later on what transpired, but I believe they are well despite being detained by the king and queen.”
He heaved a sigh. “At least the ship’s captain did not fail me.”
“Did he not?” she exclaimed and saw Durand look around. She leaned nearer, hissed, “He should not have put to sea.” Though still pained over doubling the man’s reward, that had been necessary to save Durand, and she had tried to persuade Sir Norris to delay the crossing. “’Twas the queen’s man who did not fail you, Father.”
“Then I owe him gratitude alongside God.”
She moistened her lips. “Tell me what you learned of my ship’s wreck.”
“What would I know that you—?” His eyes darted toward the stables. “They come! Be silent and speak not of my son’s death. I may have a solution.”
“Solution?”
“Aye, one that will see your escort all the sooner depart, leaving the business of Wiltford to its lord, not Henry and Eleanor.”
Though she longed for an explanation, Durand was nearly upon them, his suspicion striding well ahead of him.
Beata almost pitied her father who would soon learn that ridding himself of the queen’s man was no easy thing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Upon the Baron of Wiltford’s return to the hall after excusing himself to see to his wife, who suffered what he called a passing illness, he found his steward had seated his guests before the hearth and provided them food and drink.
While mulling his solution, Beata had spoken little with Durand and Elias in the half hour since their entrance into a hall that, though as fine as remembered, was somewhat disarrayed. But the Lady of Heath Castle was young, and when not occupied with giving her husband an heir, was surely too beset with recovering from the attempts to keep the household in order.
Might she yet birth a healthy babe? If she succeeded, it would free Beata and Emmerich, though only of inheriting Wiltford. Either Beata would be bound to a man for life, or Emmerich’s commitment to the Church would be dissolved. However, providing her brother did not quickly wed, his sacrifice would not be lifelong. He could return to the Church.
“Baron Rodelle,” Durand said as the other man lowered into the chair beside his daughter
, “What tidings of the shipwreck?”
Beata’s father plucked an apple from the platter of viands. “Surely I am less informed than you.”
Durand lowered a twice-filled goblet. “Your daughter and I escaped ahead of the scavengers and traveled well inland lest they followed. Thus, we heard no tale of the wreck.”
The baron cut away the soft of the apple and tossed it on the fire. “The men I sent to meet my daughter and Sir Norris told it was not only their ship that sank.”
“The name of the other?”
“I know not—only that it also struck the rocks and went under not far from Brighthelmstone.”
Durand dragged a hand over his head, tousling hair his hood had flattened during the ride.
Beata looked away, ran into Elias’s gaze, and averted again. Though she should be grateful it could not be confirmed Baron Wulfrith was lost to his family, she wearied of the unknown. Were he dead, better she grieve now for her part in his demise than allow hope to breed more hope, an abundance of which could be more detrimental than a surfeit of its opposite.
“Such tragedy, though far worse ’twould be were my daughter lost to me,” her father said. “As word spreads, English and French alike shall mourn the loss of family and friends aboard those ships.”
Durand sat forward so suddenly the baron sat back. “The second ship was of French origin?”
Understanding made Beata lean in as well.
Annoyance unsettled her father’s eyebrows. “Aye, that much is known.”
“What else?”
He shrugged. “’Twas bound for France—departed Dover ere the storm struck and was blown down the coast.”
Durand’s face swam before Beata, then the bread she had nibbled tumbled from her fingers and she folded over herself.
She heard her father call to her, but when she lifted her face from her skirts, it was Durand she sought. And he was before her, a hand gripping her shoulder.
“Not Baron Wulfrith,” she said past a smile that trembled so much it could be no pretty thing. Yielding to impulse, she set a hand on his jaw. “He shall return to his family, Durand.”
Though he looked discomfited, his mouth softened. “Answered prayer, Beata.”
She longed to go into his arms—to kiss him no matter how improper it would appear.
“I am glad to have lightened the mood,” the Baron of Wiltford drawled.
As Durand straightened, Beata swung her head around.
Disapproval lined her father’s face.
“Certes, you have lightened our mood, Baron Rodelle,” Durand said. “It was feared the second ship carried Baron Wulfrith and his men who were to depart court shortly after Lady Beata.”
“A terrible loss that would have been,” her father said, “not only for his family but all of England.”
Durand inclined his head. “If your steward will lend me parchment and ink, I shall compose a missive to each of the baron’s brothers so their minds are eased.”
“Certainly. Now—”
“Beata?”
Though it was a voice somewhat deeper and of greater volume than she remembered, she knew it. She jumped up and swung toward the young man who stood just off the stairs. At twenty-one years to her twenty-five, he had grown square-jawed and taller, but his face and slight figure were familiar.
“Emmerich!” As she ran to him, his eyes moved to their father. There had never been ease between the two male Rodelles, but she had hoped in her absence they would become comfortable in each other’s company. It did not feel that way, the tension in the hall increasing. Because Emmerich would not give up the Church?
Only when she neared her brother did he step farther into the hall, and it was she who wrapped her arms around him. “My little brother, who is little no more.”
As if unaccustomed to displays of affection, awkwardly he put his arms around her. “My big sister, who is big no more,” he said, and when she dropped back her head, she saw him glance toward their father again.
“What do you here, Emmerich? I thought you were in London.”
Though his smile was tight, it revealed enough of his teeth to evidence the front two had not closed as hers had not done. It was their mother in them.
“I am on Church business,” he raised his voice as if to be heard beyond her, “but since I was passing near Wiltford, I paused to meet my new little brother.”
With the speaking of that last, a dark space appeared in his eyes that sent a chill through her, but she warmed it away with the reminder he must know their sibling was lost to them. And godly though he was, just as she must bend her faith to do her duty to their father, so must he.
Emmerich set her back, adjusted his priest’s robes, and nodded at those before the hearth. “I would meet your escort.”
Their father made the introductions, calling his son Brother Emmerich. As Beata observed the latter, it struck her he was too lean, as befitting one who sets an example of sacrifice by not yielding to gluttony. Just as he lacked the training of a warrior, he had not the build or presence.
“Tell us, Brother Emmerich,” Durand said, “how fares your brother?”
“The babe is—”
“Ah, here he is now.” Her father nodded toward the stairs. “Come, Petronilla. My daughter would meet the brother who shall one day lord Wiltford.”
The pretty woman cradling a bundle against the bodice of a homespun gown glanced amongst those gathered, paused on Durand, then lowered her face and crossed the hall with what seemed reluctance.
Beata’s stomach heaved. Here was her father’s solution—claiming another’s child as his own the sooner to see Durand and Elias away. And like Emmerich, she must participate in the deception.
Resentment once more roused, she wished Durand’s suspicions strong enough to see through the ruse. And recanted. If she must wed a man, better one of her choosing than the queen’s.
“My lady.” The woman halted before Beata, glanced at the dozing infant. “You would like to hold yer brother?”
Beata reached, and as the babe was passed to her, it blinked sleepy eyes, and its sweet mouth formed a smile. “Oh,” Beata breathed, “such a beautiful child.”
“So handsome, he is near beautiful,” her father said before she realized her poor choice of words.
“Indeed,” Petronilla said with thinly disguised pride.
Beata glanced at Durand and was not surprised by his sharp gaze and firm mouth. Then her wish was granted that he not be taken in by the ruse?
“Return the babe to his mother, Petronilla,” her father said. “My lady wife will not sleep until he is settled beside her.”
“Aye, my lord.” The woman eased the babe from Beata, and when the child cooed, twittered back. As she started past Durand, he stepped into her path. “May I, Petronilla?”
She nodded, and Beata saw her father stiffen as Durand peered at the child.
“The babe is beautiful,” he said.
The woman thanked him and continued across the hall.
After she disappeared up the stairs, Beata’s father looked to Durand. “It has been a long day, and Sir Elias and you will wish to leave early on the morrow. I will have you shown to your chamber.”
No offer of supper, Beata noted. They had been fed, but it was impolite not to include them among the castle folk who would gather to share the day’s last meal. But what choice had her father? Though he had surely held close the death of his son three days past in anticipation of Beata’s arrival, enough must know of it that it could prove impossible to control their tongues.
“Certes, we are travel worn and in need of a good night’s rest,” Durand said. “As requested, you will send up parchment and ink?”
“It shall be done.”
Beata was fairly certain her escort would not leave on the morrow. Not only was her father a poor liar, but no missive need be written if Elias and Durand were to quit Wiltford at dawn. Even if Durand returned to France by a route different from the one Beata and
he had taken, Elias could deliver tidings of Baron Wulfrith to those of Stern Castle and send them on to Wulfen.
“I would also like to see my chamber,” she said.
Emmerich stepped forward. “I will take you.”
“If my wife is agreeable, Brother Emmerich,” their father said, “first introduce your sister to your stepmother.”
Beata’s inside jumped. Though it was true her father’s wife was a stepmother to the children of his first wife, it was beyond peculiar that one ten years younger than she was accorded that title.
Her father summoned his steward, and as he instructed the man to escort Durand and Elias to their chamber, Beata followed Emmerich up the stairs.
“’Tis good to see you,” she said when they reached the landing.
He glanced across his shoulder, allowing a glimpse of fire in cool gray eyes. “From you, I believe that.”
She halted.
He turned to her. “Forgive me. Despite the circumstances we are made to suffer, I am also pleased to see you, Beata.”
She inclined her head. “I am sorry father and you remain distant. He wants what is best for Wiltford and surely believes the best is you. Though I know you are devoted to the Church, would you not—?”
“I would not. Nor would our sire who does not believe I am best for Wiltford.”
She blinked. “What say you?”
He glanced past her, and as she also caught the sound of boots ascending the stairs, he took her arm and drew her to the solar. After a single knock to alert its occupants to visitors, he opened the door and pulled her inside.
Nursing the babe at the hearth, Petronilla looked up and quickly away. If Beata guessed right, she had served as wet nurse to the Baron of Wiltford’s infant son before his death, and the one she cradled was her daughter or very pretty son. Woe to her that she had yet to return to the village from which she, a new mother capable of nursing a babe besides her own, had come. Of course, it was likely she had not been allowed to depart Heath, since to do so would cause some to question the health of the babe whose last two siblings were long buried.
