by Tamara Leigh
Not my lady, Durand silently corrected as he passed the reins to the squire and mounted the steps. “Again, I apologize for pausing at Broehne, Baron. Were the weather not foul, we would have continued to Wulfen.”
“I assume you are being pursued.”
“We are. By the lady’s father and…husband.”
Lavonne halted, and the face he turned to the queen’s man was stone.
Durand held his gaze. “I am on royal business, Baron. Though there is much more to that tale than when I was tasked with escorting Lady Beata from France to England, I vow the circumstances in which I find myself are far different from…”
Lavonne narrowed his lids. “I will be more comfortable once I know the tale in full.”
Suppressing resentment with the reminder distrust was the man’s due, Durand said, “Then over a tankard of ale and viands, you shall know it.”
Without comment, Lavonne resumed his ascent.
The woman was tall, taller than any Beata had seen, but not ungainly as she strode from the hearth with hands folded at her waist. Elegant. And her questioning smile turned an unremarkable face lovely. Were she wed to the even taller man who had welcomed Beata to…
Which castle was it? Upon which barony?
She could not recall what he said, having been so unsettled at the realization it was not to her father’s men Durand had given his name and hers in requesting permission to enter.
Regardless, if this woman who was nearly upon Beata was wed to the one who had walked alongside Durand’s horse, and were that man kind, the lady would be blessed to have been matched with a husband over whom she did not stand. Rather like Baron Wulfrith had told of his—
She stuttered back a step, causing concern to line the woman’s brow as she halted before her guest.
“Lady Beata?”
Beata snatched a breath of air. “I know who you are.”
The woman’s smile gave way to dismay, but it slipped out as quickly as it slid in. “Aye, I am Lady Gaenor, wife of Baron Lavonne, mother of Lyulf and soon to be blessed again”—she touched her abdomen that evidenced she was perhaps halfway through her term—“sister to Baron Wulfrith, Sir Everard, Sir Abel, and Lady Beatrix, and daughter to Lady Isobel.” She drew a long breath. “Now that is done, I am pleased to receive you in our home.”
Beata knew she should observe the niceties as she had done whilst Conrad’s wife, but they fled her, and all she could say was, “I should not be here.”
The lady stepped nearer. “You should. ’Tis cold out, dark, and the hour will grow old ere it grows young again. Now whilst your chamber is being prepared, come warm yourself at the hearth.”
Though Beata longed to give herself into the lady’s hands—she who should want naught to do with Durand and his charge—she hesitated.
In the next instant, the door behind opened, first granting entrance to chill air, then the men whose booted feet caused the floorboards to creak—one set of which made Beata close her fingers into fists.
“Well come, Sir Durand,” Lady Gaenor said. “I have invited Lady Beata to rest at hearth whilst your chambers are prepared and refreshments assembled.”
As Durand came alongside Beata, she dug nails into her palms to control the hurt and anger that tempted her to slap him.
Behave, she told herself and nearly gasped at her own counseling.
“Lady Gaenor,” he said, “I am pleased to see you again, and I thank you for your hospitality. I would not have imposed were—”
“I am glad you paused at Broehne, Sir Knight.” She gestured at the great fireplace whose warmth barely reached across the hall. “Pray, join my husband and me.”
Durand took Beata’s arm, and as he drew her across the beautifully appointed hall, she ached over not wanting his hand upon her for how much she did want it. This in spite of his profession of feelings—surely exaggerated—that had made her believe he would return her to Soames if she provided a very good reason.
Forgive me Father, Emmerich, Lady Winifred, she silently beseeched. Had I not been so vain to believe he felt much for me, I would not have revealed our secret.
When he handed her toward a bench, she slipped past and claimed one of two chairs, certain he meant to share that seat with her.
After an awkward pause, Lady Gaenor gestured Durand into the other chair, and her husband and she took the bench. Moments later, the baron clasped his wife’s hand between his.
Regardless of what had happened between Lady Gaenor and Durand, the love between this man and woman had seen them past it—so far past, they could welcome the queen’s man into their home. How?
Faith in one’s spouse, Beata decided, perhaps as much as in the Lord. Surely only then could true forgiveness be attained.
Certes, Baron Wulfrith had spoken true. He and his siblings had made good marriages, even Lady Gaenor, who had been given no choice in a husband.
Beata was happy for them, but honesty bade her admit she was also envious. And promise herself that if she must pack away what remained of Conrad’s beloved wife and widow when the vestal was no more, she would make peace with Lothaire Soames and carve out of their relationship whatever happiness could be had—even if only by way of children.
Lord, she prayed, bless me with many that I may be so occupied I do not long for one other than my husband.
“As told you, Sir Durand,” Christian Lavonne said, “our journey to Stern was delayed. Unfortunately, due to our son taking ill.”
“I am sorry,” Beata found her voice. “Is it serious?”
“Nay, he is a strong lad, and so much improved we considered departing this day. However, with the weather so chill and changeable, we determined it best we remain here—mayhap altogether this Christmas.”
Beata forced a smile, and when she glanced at Durand, found his eyes upon her. Glimpsing there what seemed yearning, she shot to her feet. “Forgive me, but I am weary. Even if my chamber is not ready, I beseech you to allow me to gain it.”
Lady Gaenor reached her ahead of Durand. “I shall take you,” she said and guided her abovestairs.
Beyond being assisted in the removal of her gloves and mantle and lowering to the edge of a wonderfully soft mattress, Beata was aware of little. But as covers were arranged over her and she drifted away, she heard again what Lady Gaenor had said when she peeled off her guest’s gloves.
I see you are wed, Lady Beata. Happily, I pray.
It was not the goblet of wine nor the tankard of ale that made him confide. It was their seeming acceptance of Durand Marshal. Though they had given him cause to think himself forgiven, he had not fully believed it. And yet long they had sat with him in their solar as he told of the rescue of The Vestal Widow from Count Verielle’s men and all the events that followed.
Nearly all. He saw no reason to reveal the murder of Lothaire Soames’s father, and though he had confessed to his growing attraction for his charge, he barely touched on his feelings. But he saw that question in Gaenor’s eyes before she gave herself permission to speak it.
More disconcerting, it was not quite a question. “You love her.”
This lady, perhaps more than any, knew how love for a woman hung upon him. Sitting forward in the chair angled toward husband and wife, he dug his elbows into his thighs and clasped his hands between his knees. “Love,” he murmured, pride causing him to make it more a question than confirmation.
She smiled softly. “The same as you felt for the first Beatrix.”
Not the same, he could not say for how much it would gut him. “Another Beatrix.” He shook his head. “Such irony, eh?”
She shrugged. “’Tis but a name in a world of too few names for how many we are. Blessed be the Lord who sees to it we are all different on the outside and more so on the inside.” Her smile turned apologetic. “Meaning I chose my words poorly. I should not have compared what you feel for Lady Beata with what you once felt for my sister.”
Once…
As Durand had done often
to assure himself the conversation mostly carried by Gaenor and himself did not trespass, he moved his regard to Christian Lavonne.
The baron looked to his wife. “It is not my place to speak on what Sir Durand feels for the lady, but methinks he is as miserable as I was ere I had hope of a blessed future with you.”
She blushed prettily, and Durand understood why he had never realized how lovely she was. True beauty lay not only in loving but in being loved. And that his actions had nearly denied her this made his throat tighten and eyes moisten.
He looked away. Though Baron Wulfrith had assured the young men who trained beneath him that even the greatest warrior was not above tears, they unsettled him, especially in the presence of others. And more greatly as they continued to gather.
He lowered his chin, set his teeth, and breathed deep. But his chest ached so much he drove his hands into his hair and clasped them at the back of his neck. “I have made a mess of it. All that was required of me was to deliver her to her father and, if she proved an heiress, ensure she did not wed without Eleanor’s consent.”
Gaenor laughed. Under different circumstances, he would have thought it a beautiful sound. “That is all that was required of you? No provisions made for a resistant charge, being injured, beaten, robbed, shipwrecked, and a victim of such devious design Sir Elias’s drink was tainted?” She harrumphed. “You made a mess of it?”
Her outrage lightening his angst, he unclasped his hands and lifted his head.
“What do you intend, Sir Durand?” This from her husband, who surely wearied of their guest.
“I will write to Eleanor of all that has gone and, until I have word from her, prevent Lady Beata from falling into her father’s and Soames’s hands.” He looked to Gaenor. “Providing Abel allows me to secure the lady at Wulfen, that should be easily accomplished.”
“I am sure he will, but…” She turned to her husband.
He nodded. “Lady Beata and you are welcome to remain our guests. Though a chamber here is not as secure as locking your charge in one of Wulfen’s towers, I will alert the garrison to be more vigilant in ensuring those who enter our walls are welcome, as well as offer a man to aid in watching the lady lest she attempt to escape.”
Durand started to decline, but Gaenor said, “It could be weeks, even months ere you receive tidings of how to proceed. Having myself passed much time at Wulfen out of sight of all but my brothers—or nearly all”—she glanced at her husband—“I assure you, ’tis a less than agreeable stay. True, Helene is with Abel at Wulfen, but here Lady Beata will be more comfortable and able to move about with ease.”
Still he longed to object, but the offer was generous. Though Beata would not like it, less she would like imprisonment at Wulfen. “You are certain it is no great imposition?”
“We are,” her husband said and raised his wife beside him. “Think on it, and let us know come the morrow.”
“Good eve, my lord…my lady.” Durand crossed to the door. Shortly, he entered the chamber alongside Beata’s he had been shown prior to joining the Lavonnes in the solar.
He shed his garments, slid beneath the bedclothes, and snuffed the candle on the table. “I praise You for aiding me with the Wulfriths and Lavonnes,” he told the Lord as he stared into darkness from which his adjusting eyes gleaned light. “Now help us not hold tight to those earthly things we long for lest You be torn from our grasp.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The maid wore bells. Somewhere on her person. Softly tinkling like dainty rain upon steel.
“You are awake, my lady?”
Now she was. But she did not regret it. Sleeping through the day would not sooner see her returned to Soames to secure her family’s secret.
She almost laughed at that last. Durand had betrayed her—no matter her revelation had never intended to choose her over Eleanor. Thus, if he shared with the queen the secret entrusted to him, Beata would be as guilty of betrayal.
Truly, I should hate you, Durand, she thought as she peered past the hair tossed across her face at the maid who halted alongside the mattress.
The young woman dropped to her haunches, and her eyes found Beata’s amidst dark tresses. “Aye, awake—and hungry, I wager.” She smiled brightly, reminding Beata of better times when she had been as free with that expression. “I be Aimee, Lady Gaenor’s maid, and you must be esteemed for my mistress to sacrifice my service so I may assist you.”
Beata was surprised by the stretching of her own lips. Flushed with guilt at finding pleasure in this sprite’s company, she eased from her belly onto her side and looked more closely at the woman.
The maid’s mouth so quickly puckered, it was as if its drawstring had been cinched tight. “Oh my lady, a sorry sight you are! Tell Aimee what so saddens you should cry the night through.”
Beata fingered her puffed eyes. She did not recall crying or dreams so disturbed she would have wept through them, but she remembered words that had scraped her soul as she went down into sleep—I see you are wed, Lady Beata. Happily, I pray.
“’Twas only a bad dream,” she said. And that was not truly a lie.
Aimee straightened. “Worry not. We shall apply cold cloths to your eyes and none need know your distress. Now let me tend you lest you present late for the nooning meal.”
“The nooning meal?” Beata sat up.
“Aye.” The maid crossed the room and banged back the shutters. Though the window was fit with oilcloth to deflect the chill air, unclouded sunlight filtered into the chamber. “See now, we must make haste.”
Beata scooted back against the headboard. “Is it possible for viands to be delivered here?”
“’Tis, and I will see it done if you insist, but my mistress told that should you request it, I ought to assure you that the most comely knight—Sir Durand, is it not?—shall not take his meal at table.”
Then he was elsewhere? Within the castle? Beyond the walls? Though first dismayed that he was gone from her and next dismayed he had left her with strangers, she remembered her duty to her family and told herself it was for the best. She had only to play well with the Lavonnes and, before long, they would ease their watch, allowing her to find a way back to Soames.
Not Soames, she once more corrected. Your husband, not only in word but soon in deed.
That stirred her bile, the thought of being intimate with one other than Durand—
Cease! she silently rebuked. He can never be!
“Well, my lady? What say you?”
Beata returned Aimee to focus. Though she preferred to remain abovestairs, the sooner Lady Gaenor believed her guest was easily in hand, the sooner she could be fooled. Too, barring illness it would be rude for Beata to keep to her chamber, especially since she had not appeared this morn to break her fast.
She looked down her rumpled gown. “Providing your mistress does not mind her guest wearing tired garments, I will join her belowstairs.”
Aimee made a face. “Though stitchin’ crosses my eyes something terrible, my lady made certain I did not lounge away the company I kept with you.” As she strode back toward the bed, she gestured at a chair over which a pale green gown was draped. “’Twould not do for her loyal servant to enjoy a much-deserved rest. Humph! Know you how much hem I had to stitch up to be sure my lady’s gown would not catch ’neath your feet?”
More than a hand’s width, Beata was certain—providing the maid had correctly reckoned the height of the one who had slept through the alteration. Recalling the last garment altered for her, Beata wanted to smile. Unlike Lady Gaenor’s gown, Lady Helene’s had required the addition of material to its hem.
Aimee clicked her tongue, reminding Beata of Elias, worrying her over his recovery, and shaming her for being so taken with her own troubles she had hardly considered him since stealing to the wood with her father.
Had his belly settled sufficiently to allow him to return to Wulfen? Would he return? Though he was not vengeful, he was no longer the young man who preferred s
ongs, plays, and the telling of tales to weaponry and strategy. He had become a warrior, and with that distinction came greater pride, which her father had trampled in reducing him to the helplessness of a boy retching up his porridge.
“My lady?”
Beata swung her feet to the floor and gave over to the chatty maid in whom she would have delighted if not for the misery of her circumstances.
The embroidered gown proved a good length and an acceptable fit. Granted, more of Beata’s borrowed chemise showed past the lacings than she would have liked, but little of her modesty was compromised.
“I knew Aimee would set you right,” Lady Gaenor said when she met her guest coming off the stairs. “You look lovely.” She swept her gaze back up and lingered over Beata’s face. “And fairly well rested.”
Confirmation the cool cloths had reduced the swelling caused by tears.
“I thank you for the gown and loan of your maid,” Beata said, and though tempted to ask after Durand, did not. “You are most kind.”
The lady inclined her head and led Beata among the castle folk who gathered in the hall to enjoy the day’s heartiest meal.
As Aimee had revealed, Durand was not present. Also absent was Baron Lavonne though the lord’s high seat was not empty. A boy of four—perhaps five—perched there on his knees, raising himself well enough to reach the viands soon to be served.
“Ah, son,” Lady Gaenor said as she strode the backside of the dais upon which the high table was erected, “you must earn that place ere you may even think there.”
The boy whose plump, lightly flushed face made him appear younger than his height and breadth suggested, swept up long lashes and said in a voice also less mature than expected, “Only ’til you come back, momma.” Then he ducked beneath the table and popped up beside the chair into which Lady Gaenor lowered.
“Who that?” He frowned at the one who took the seat her hostess indicated.
“Lady Beata.” She ruffled his blond hair, then lingeringly swept it out of his eyes as if to test the heat of his brow. “Lady Beata, this is our son, Lyulf.”
