by Tamara Leigh
“Nay, Daughter. I—”
“The banns! That took planning. And your choice of a husband was waiting for me here.” She tried to draw a deep breath, but more words tumbled forth. “Was I so slight of mind as a child that you thought I would not see your deception? Were I, then I am all the more grateful my husband saw to my education, especially in the matters of men.”
He set a hand on her arm. “This time a better husband I have chosen. He is but a few years older, of good appearance and of a size your sons will be all the better warriors. Though his lands are not as extensive as ours, nor as fertile, they are bettered by an abundance of sheep and good grazing.”
“I say nay.”
He ground his teeth so hard she heard their protest. “Beata, there is no other. Though I wished to give you a choice, he is the only one worthy of Wiltford and willing.”
“Willing!”
“First you were The Vestal Wife, now The Vestal Widow.”
“Why is he willing when others are not?”
“He is in need of a wife with funds to aid in setting aright his own demesne that was ill-managed by his mother until he took control.”
Then she was the price he must suffer to save his lands.
“Too, your marriage will resolve the differences between our families—”
“Differences? Of which family do you speak?”
“That of Soames.”
She knew the name. As a girl, she had not been oblivious to her father’s grumblings over the strain between their families, it being believed the Rodelles were complicit in the disappearance of Baron Soames. No body was found, and there was naught to do but conclude the man met his end by foul means, leaving his young son to grow into his title much the same as Beata’s departed cousin had done.
“That is who you would have me wed? One who believes ill of our family? That is the better marriage I am to make?”
“Lothaire Soames is more reasonable than his mother and desirous of better relations between our families. Though his lands do not border ours, they are not so distant Wiltford will be difficult to administer when I pass. And I do not doubt this barony will prosper beneath Soames’s guidance. Though a fairly young man, he is shrewd. Too, he and I are of a mind about Henry and Eleanor.”
Meaning he had also supported King Stephen’s reign over Henry’s. “A good marriage that may make for you, Father, but not for me.”
“Beata, you cannot think only of yourself. What of Wiltford’s people? ’Tis our duty to ensure they prosper.”
There was that, but… She tried to blink away remembrance of Durand.
As if it were tears she sought to clear from her eyes, her father patted her arm. “It must be done, and all the more imperative it is now I have learned Sir Durand was to deliver me a missive from the queen. Since it surely directed me to wed you to a man of her choosing, that it was lost at sea is God’s blessing upon your marriage to Soames.”
Beata should not be surprised by the existence of a missive, nor hurt that Durand had not told her of it. Both were to be expected, and yet her throat tightened.
“This day the queen’s man sent word to Eleanor informing her of your arrival at Wiltford,” her father continued. “As I have yet to lay eyes on her missive, I do not act against her wishes by wedding you to one I would have father my grandchildren.”
Resolve weakening, Beata said, “Still, she will not like it.”
“Not liking what I do and exacting retribution for what is done is very different. Now are we of a mind?”
She shook her head.
“Beata, if you do not secure Wiltford’s future, I will have to try for another babe with Winifred, and the poor lass—”
“Aye, lass!” she snapped. “And what of Emmerich? He could—”
“Not Emmerich! Never Emmerich!”
“Why?”
For some moments, he looked everywhere but at her, then he said, “Always he was destined for the Church, and as his mother would wish him to remain there, so he shall.”
“There is more to it. Long you have had your heir. Instead, you choose one who does not want that burden, who speaks too much on the matters of men, who is twenty and five to Emmerich’s twenty and one.”
Whatever he held close was visible just beneath the surface of his eyes, and so she dragged harder. “You are ashamed of him. Ever you have been. That is the ill between you. Do you even love him?”
“I do! ’Tis just…” He sighed. “God knows Emmerich is not to blame, but he was born too early—ever too slight and prone to illness, fearful of weapons and violence, and better at wielding the edge of a quill than a blade. A worthy lord will administer Wiltford when I am gone, not one whose place is within the Church.”
Beata wanted to slap him.
“There is naught more to discuss, Daughter. Now will you do the duty owed me as blood of my blood?”
She made him wait on her answer, then feeling leaden, said, “I have no choice.”
He nodded. “As we have wasted much time and can only pray Sir Durand and Sir Elias continue to practice at arms, you must gain your mantle quickly.”
And as her father’s only heir, this day wed a man unlike the one who had lovingly shaped her into The Vestal Wife. She would become a possession, never again see Durand, never again feel the only hands she wished to feel, nevermore know his kiss.
“Daughter?”
Oh Conrad, you did not want this for me. But what am I to do? Right or wrong, he believes he has only me. And am I not to honor my father?
Listen well, Beata, Conrad spoke to her from the past as he had many times spoken to her in the present. Know all that can be known ere you give answer. Not in haste. Never in haste.
She looked to her father. “Send word to Lothaire Soames I will not wed one who skulks outside the walls. If he wishes to proceed, first I shall make his acquaintance here.” Where she was not without recourse should he be unsuitable, but that she did not say.
“Nonsense, Beata! That will leave no time for vows to be spoken this day. Worse, it will alert Sir Durand—”
“He need not know of my betrothal. It can be said Baron Soames but visits.”
“You think the castle folk will not speak on the peculiarity he is so soon returned?”
It was true, but on this she would not move. “I am sure your steward can instruct them to be cautious in the hearing of Sir Durand and Sir Elias.” Seeing his face redden further, she said, “I am sorry it inconveniences you, but if I am to wed a man not of my choosing, I shall myself determine he will not make my life miserable.”
“As told you, he is—”
She held up a hand. “I yield this and no more. If you do not like it, leave Baron Soames in the wood. And now”—she turned away—“I shall visit with your wife and give succor as I can.”
Though it took little time to reach the solar, she stood outside a long while, praying for strength to enter, certain the more time she spent with Winifred, the more difficult it would be to refuse her sire, even if she found Baron Soames repellent.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
He was charming. Not utterly charming. Reservedly so.
Handsome. Not staggeringly handsome. Reasonably so.
Polite. Not stiffly polite. Languidly so.
Observant. Not offensively observant. Mysteriously so.
And familiar. Not distinctly familiar. Strangely so.
And not at all what she expected of a man who hid in the wood.
But for her fortune, he would wed a woman he did not want, and of whom his family believed ill. For that, Beata did not like Baron Lothaire Soames. Nor, it seemed, did Durand and Elias, who had earlier accompanied her father’s guest from the outer bailey to the donjon.
Of note when Beata had departed the solar, hurting anew over the lady who was grateful another was to bear her burden, was that neither man had been eager to shed his sweat and filth though the nooning meal was soon to be served. They had remained belowstairs, watch
ing Beata and Baron Soames as introductions were made, and allowing her father to carry most of the conversation while servants moved tables and benches into place for the main meal of the day. And when they had withdrawn to make themselves presentable, they did so singly.
Now as the meal neared its end, with Durand and Elias on one side of Baron Rodelle, she and Lord Soames on the other, Emmerich absent, Beata bemoaned her future.
Other than dislike of her deceptively agreeable betrothed, thus far she had little cause to object to their marriage. However, if she could move his attention from her father to her, perhaps she would find something significant over which to object.
She touched his sleeve, and when he looked around, strands of hair the color of wheat escaped the leather thong holding them captive at his nape.
Telling herself it was irrelevant she did not like long hair on a man—especially of a length that, unbound, would skim the lower reaches of his shoulder blades—refusing to allow her gaze to stray to Durand, she said, “Speak to me of your family, Baron Soames.”
A harmless question, she assured herself, one any new acquaintance might ask. And yet something flickered in his eyes that made her wonder if his first thought was of his missing father. Did he still suspect the Rodelles were involved?
An instant later, a smile curved his mouth.
And here another thing it did not matter whether she liked—a face so clean-shaven. She much preferred the dark and rough of Durand’s short beard.
“’Tis kind of you to ask, Lady Beata.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Curious me.”
He leaned so close she almost pulled back. “And curious me. Do I pass inspection, my lady?”
She nearly protested, but that was what she did. “I have yet to decide, but I am pleased you ceased lurking in the wood.”
“Your sire is not. Nor Sir Durand and Sir Elias. I do not believe they like me.” His smile rose, and she thought him more handsome. “Tell me, Lady Beata, are you yet vestal?”
She startled and had to snap her teeth closed to keep from rebuking him for all to hear.
He grimaced, but the expression seemed a lie. “Forgive me for being so bold, but your escort, Sir Durand, is overly interested in your well-being.”
He was, his gaze often felt throughout the meal. She swallowed down offense. “Interested only in how it affects his duty to his liege. He would not want you or any man laying claim to lands of which our sovereign wishes to dispose.”
“Henry and Eleanor,” he slid their names across his tongue. “I suppose I ought to better explain my interest in the vestal since you have, on several points, passed my inspection.”
More anger. “Have I? Since until now you have spoken little to me and only of niceties, the only requirement of which I am aware is the funds needed to set aright your mismanaged lands.”
A muscle in his jaw convulsed. “That is of great import, but there is something more important, which seems unattainable where many a lady is concerned.”
“That is?”
“What has been asked of you and remains unanswered.”
She lowered her frown. “The vestal.”
He set a forearm on the table and leaned into it, blocking Durand’s view of their faces. And making her feel like prey as he awaited the answer she was not inclined to give.
“Do we marry,” she said, “and that remains to be decided, an answer you will have on our wedding night.”
“Nay, among my requirements is that you are vestal. Hence, why I care not for the depth of Sir Durand’s interest, which is all the more concerning for your determination not to look near upon him. Guilt? I ask myself. Or a valiant battle against yearning? If the latter, it is admirable, though still of concern.”
Dear Lord, he is far too observant—and abominable to question my virtue!
She opened her mouth to correct him, but he held up a hand, and she was reminded it would not do to draw Durand’s attention more than already they did.
“I have cause to question the vestal, and I do it at this time and place only that we not prolong the game, if that is all this is to your father and you.”
She leaned closer. “The longer we converse, Sir Lothaire,” she eschewed his greater title, “the more tempted I am to make this but a game. And one in my favor that I never suffer your attentions.”
He drew a breath between mostly straight teeth. “Bear with me, and all the sooner we will be done, whether we decide against spending our lives together or steal away from Sir Durand and speak vows on the morrow.”
“I am bearing, but not much longer.”
“So, vestal or nay?”
She imagined fire leapt in her eyes, for he raised a hand again.
“More and more I see what is said of you, Lady—so much it may not matter whether you are a maiden.”
“I believe we are done, Sir Lothaire. You must look elsewhere for a sweet, do-with-as-you-please virgin bride who happily packs up her own wishes and desires to fulfill yours. Why, such valuable chattel she will prove that you will have to put locks on her!”
The tolerant teasing about his face slipped, and in its place rose anger that startled her for how much more familiar he seemed in that moment. But a blink snatched tolerance back into place. He considered her, but just when she thought she might yield to impropriety and take herself from the hall he said, “You repel, Lady Beata, and yet you intrigue. Thus, as methinks I need not temper my words any more than you do, let me explain myself better. The woman I take to wife will have known no lover’s hands before mine. Not unreasonable, and less so for one who has been twice cuckolded.”
She caught her breath and he laughed—strategically, as if to make those curious about their conversation believe it was of little things.
“Aye, my first betrothed, with whom I thought myself in love, proved to be with child—blessedly ere I wed her. With my second betrothed, I was not as fortunate. Only after consummation was it discovered she had lain with another, deny it though she did.” He tilted his head as if to ask if that sufficed.
“I am sorry,” she said and wished she had not spoken of putting locks on one’s wife. He must think it entirely humorless—though perhaps a serious consideration.
“Twice humiliated, something over which a man does not boast,” he said. “Now then, a reasonable person would understand why I ask after your state and suspect the attraction between Sir Durand and you—an attraction all the more worrisome in light of the days and nights spent alone but for the other’s company.”
She did understand, his explanation making it easier to accept what her father asked of her and what Lady Winifred needed from her. “I understand as much as I can.”
“Good. Then you will submit to an examination?”
She was glad he blocked her from Durand’s sight. “What say you?”
“After all I have told, it cannot be unexpected. Too, as it must be obvious I am in good health, for what else would I travel with my physician?” He glanced past her to where the man was seated at the end of the table.
Her father had known about this, then. Beata longed to spit.
“You are angry,” Soames said. “Again.”
That did not help. At all. “Strange that, but you and my father give me good cause to be so affected.”
“I advised him to prepare you.”
“Had he, I do not think you would be here, Sir Lothaire. As well he is aware.”
“So I have wasted my time seeking to wed a Rodelle?”
If only. Though she ached to bid him farewell this day, if she must wed one not of her choosing, he seemed not a bad choice considering the unknown. Easily, Queen Eleanor could wed her to another old man, this time one who did not eschew the nuptial bed. Or a lecher like Sir Oliver whom Durand had sent scuttling into the shadows.
Of a sudden, she wanted to cry. Just as suddenly, the baron’s hand covered hers upon the table’s edge.
“I am no monster, Lady Beata,” he said and, for th
e first time, she noted the silken brown of eyes and heaviness of lids that made him appear almost like a young boy awakening from a nap. “I would wed you, make children on you, and waste no worry over you remaining faithful to our vows. An easy arrangement.”
A loveless arrangement. As she stared at him, she wished it was Durand’s face before her. That would be no loveless arrangement—at least not on her part.
Dear Lord, she silently entreated. At last I love, but I did not choose well. I chose one denied me, a landless knight who shall spend his life in service to the queen and never know wife and children.
“What say you, Beata?” Soames said with more familiarity than was permissible.
Certain no offer would be forthcoming that would be of better benefit to her or her family, she said, “I shall submit to the examination.”
Truly, he had a wonderful smile, especially this one which was more genuine than the other that seemed almost sly. “I am glad, Lady Beata.”
Lady Beata. No longer Rodelle. Soon no longer Fauvel. Then to be Soames. Never to be Marshal.
Making no attempt to smile for how false it would appear, she said, “After meal, I shall be in my chamber. When my father determines ’tis safe, send your physician and a woman servant.” If she was to be humiliated, all the worse it would be were she alone with the man.
“’Twill be done, my lady.”
Beata did not intend to leave the table before meal’s end. To do so would draw attention, but dread anticipation offered a powerful incentive. “Forgive me,” she said when her father looked up, “but I must lie down a while.”
“You are ill?”
She wanted to pinch him for the disbelief and accusation in his tone that would draw as much attention as her departure. “I am weary. As you know, these past days have been difficult.”
Grudgingly, he inclined his head. “Rest well.”
All the way to the stairs, she felt the eyes of Durand and Elias. Thus, she was grateful her hands obeyed, remaining loose at her sides until she was out of sight. And tenfold more grateful her belly obeyed until she had her head bent over a basin and hair out of the way.
