by Tamara Leigh
Durand paused, met Beata’s gaze. “I feared for her as I fear for you with Soames, albeit for a different reason.”
“’Tis understandable.”
“Were that all, but as told, I was angry—at Beatrix, D’Arci, Lavonne, Baron Wulfrith, even Gaenor. And so I offered to steal Gaenor away from a marriage she did not want. And thoroughly betrayed my liege.”
Thus, for his regret, pain, and loss of honor, he strove to stay loyal to Eleanor.
He kneaded his neck, making Beata so long to go to him, she had to hook her toes beneath a rung to remain seated.
“For fear of King Henry’s wrath upon her family, as I fear shall fall upon yours, Gaenor decided against accompanying me to France and slipped away. She wed Lavonne, and I do not doubt what they have now is far different from what they had when the truth was learned what had happened between her and me. But the Lord is merciful. Though I had intended to leave behind all I had laid ruin to, I was presented with the possibility of redemption and took it. Afterward, I found service with the king.”
“Nay!” Beata shot to her feet. “You give me the bad with too little of the good. I would know more of your redemption.”
He stared at her, wished her braid would sooner lose its crossings and a smile show the space between her teeth.
“It has to do with Lady Helene, aye?” she pressed.
“Some of it, but I will take the short way around the tale. After Gaenor left me in the wood, I happened on brigands wreaking havoc across Baron Lavonne’s lands. They had stolen his sickly father from Broehne Castle and Helene the healer from her village to care for him. For weeks, I followed them hoping to end their terror, but ever there were too many.” He sighed. “When I learned Beatrix was in danger from the brigands, I found a way though it meant I would have to face the wrath of Wulfrith and Lavonne. I revealed myself to Gaenor. Risking the happiness she was finding with her husband, she gained me an audience with him, as well as Abel, whose friendship my betrayal had ground to dust. Together, we saved Lady Beatrix, but not without sustaining life-threatening injuries. You noticed Abel’s limp?”
“I did.”
He touched his side. “’Twas feared we would both die, and though I slowly recovered, Abel’s injuries were so severe he did not wish to live—until Baron Wulfrith brought Helene to tend him. Beneath her ministrations, he discovered an altered life was worth living. And he fell in love with her as I might have had she not returned his love.”
“I am sorry.”
“I am not. I am happy for them. The only thing I regret is what she made me think possible.” He moved his gaze over this Beatrix, who was not at all like Beatrix Wulfrith, told himself this was his last chance to pull back. But it was too late to hide what he felt for her.
“Tell me what Helene made you think possible,” she prompted.
“That God could not have made only one woman capable of laying claim to my affections.”
A soft breath rushed from her. “You regret that?”
“It occurs that had I continued to believe I would love no other but Beatrix Wulfrith, I would have far less proof of that other thing Helene impressed upon me—that love seen mostly with the eyes may be love, but ’tis a shallow thing. Had I remained unaware that true love moves through one’s entire being, I might have been more resistant to you.”
Her lids flickered, tears pooled. “Durand!”
He stepped forward and set his hands on her shoulders so they would not venture around her. “I will speak this only once that ever you know what you are capable of doing to a man. I love you, Beata.”
“Me? This Beatrix?”
“This Beatrix. No other. But though never shall that change, neither can it grow beyond this day. Thus, I shall do all in my power to make sure whoever you wed offers you the greatest chance of happiness.”
“You are my best—my only—chance.”
“As once you said, never have I been a choice, and I will not ruin us or any for whom we care.”
Her lashes fluttered and tears spilled. “I understand. Rather, I shall try.”
He released her and retreated a step.
As she wiped at her face, he saw the ink stains on her fair skin where he had caressed her racing pulse, next the wedding ring that did not belong on her hand.
“There is a knight,” he said. “Baron Lavonne has given him to aid in watching—”
“Sir Hector.” She nodded. “I saw him, and Lady Gaenor told me his name when asked.”
“I will take him off your person.”
Breath shuddered out of her. “I thank you. Be assured, I shall keep my word to await the queen’s missive.”
He returned to the writing desk. Moments later, she left him to the missive he prayed would not be long without an answer.
“Weeks, Lord,” he rasped and took up the quill and, staring at the stains on his fingers and thumbs, said, “Pray, not months.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Four weeks. That was all Eleanor gave Beata to reconcile that the man she loved and who loved her in return would never be hers. It was not nearly enough time.
Though Durand and she mostly kept their distance and, when near, exchanged few words, that did not keep her from watching him and him from avoiding her gaze.
Of all those days, the best was Christmas. Lyulf had thought himself sly in coaxing Beata to the mistletoe she was not to know hung above, making her promise to wait while he searched for his new leather ball to toss with her. Instead, he had found Durand and tugged him toward the mistletoe.
Beata had not moved though she knew she ought to rather than stand there looking as if she wished to be kissed as Baron Lavonne had kissed his wife beneath that sprig. But she had longed to be kissed, and to her surprise, Durand had not disappointed her or the lad.
Though his smile had been taut as he lowered his head, his lips had briefly fit hers. And as he had drawn back, he had rasped, “Forgive me, but never will I have a better excuse for one last kiss.”
That was certain now. What was uncertain was her understanding of Queen Eleanor’s intentions.
The three knights who emerged from the corridor that gave unto the steward’s chamber where they had met with Durand and Baron Lavonne, followed the latter across the hall to where Beata sat beside Lady Gaenor.
“Be of good courage, my friend,” the Lady of Abingdale whispered, but her choice of words almost set Beata to weeping.
The woman had become nearer a friend than she had heretofore enjoyed. Though rather quiet, Lady Gaenor delighted in Beata’s joy over the games Lyulf persuaded their guest to participate in. Never did she cause Beata to fear she laughed too loud and long those times when she set aside her heartache to feed her soul with the distraction offered by the sweet lad. Indeed, her laughter and cries of excitement had caused the boy’s mother to be more expressive herself.
But that was in the past, as told by Durand’s grim face where he had not progressed beyond the corridor. He met Beata’s gaze, held it long as if for the last time, then turned and went from sight.
“What has the queen done?” Beata whispered.
Lady Gaenor’s hand found Beata’s in her lap. “Be The Vestal Wife,” she said low. “Let us see her.”
At the lady’s prompting, Beata had shared tales of her life as Conrad’s wife, and now she was asked to behave as she feared she could never again.
Forcing herself to sit taller, she moved her eyes from the emptiness left by Durand to the queen’s knights.
As Baron Lavonne came around the table to stand alongside his wife, the visitors halted before the dais, and the stoutest inclined his head. “Lady Beata Fauvel, the queen sends her greetings. As told in her missive to Sir Durand, she directs you to accompany us to France.”
She would have fallen out of her chair were she not well seated, would have cried out had she not halfway slipped into The Vestal Wife.
Pinning up her lips in as near a smile as she could stab into place, she command
ed her breath to voice her words. “France! But I have hardly arrived in England. And the channel…” She did not have to feign distress, memories of her last crossing darkening her light tone. “Such crossings this time of year can see one shipwrecked. Pray, tell me I misunderstand.”
“I cannot, my lady. Queen Eleanor is adamant. You are to come to court.”
She swallowed. “When do we leave?”
“Now.”
She sat back hard, whilst beside her Lady Gaenor drew a sharp breath that had her husband leaning near and whispering to her.
“But it is nearly midday,” Beata choked, “and surely you ought to seek refreshment and rest.”
“Food and drink we had whilst meeting with Sir Durand and Baron Lavonne. Rest can wait. Your ship cannot.”
Pain in her hands, she looked to where she gripped the table’s edge and averted her gaze as she did each time she looked upon Soames’s ring. Pressing to her feet, she said, “I have but to gather my mantle and few possessions.”
“We shall await you here.”
When Lady Gaenor rose awkwardly—her belly having grown much this last month—Beata touched her arm. “Our parting will be easier if Aimee assists me.”
“But—”
“Truly, my lady.” She meant it. Alone with her sympathetic friend, Beata feared she would entirely misplace The Vestal Wife. For this, she was glad Durand had retreated and hoped he would not come out until she was gone. Otherwise, she might so completely lose that part of her, she would not find her again.
A quarter hour later, she thanked Baron Lavonne for lifting her astride, smiled as best she could at Lady Gaenor, and followed her escort across the drawbridge.
Away from Broehne Castle. Away from a friend she prayed she would see again. Away from Durand who had done as hoped. At least, as far as she could tell.
Though tempted to peer over her shoulder and search the walls, all the harder it would be were he there. And it was enough to cry on the inside.
Cloaked in the embrasure’s shadow, Durand watched her go. It would not be their last parting, but when he saw her next, she would belong to Soames or, should Eleanor prevail as seemed likely, to another.
When Beata and her escort disappeared over a rise, he stepped into sunlight and pulled the queen’s missive from beneath his belt. He knew what it said, having twice read it.
And now thrice, he allowed. Angling it toward the sun, all the more needed for how much his eyes burned, he stared at the greeting, then began again.
Sir Durand, your most sovereign liege is in receipt of your missives. It was with great relief we learned your charge and you survived the shipwreck, but of great disappointment your efforts to prevent the lady from wedding without our consent failed. Fear not, we do not hold you and Sir Elias entirely responsible, and we are grateful you arrived in time to prevent consummation that would give us no hope of seeing the lady properly wed.
“Properly wed,” Durand scorned.
We found most disturbing your explanation of the events that led to the marriage. However, after consulting our advisors, we have determined Baron Rodelle has suffered enough for the crime committed by his nephew, providing he and his daughter cause us no more difficulties. Hence, by order of this missive, you are to give Lady Beata Fauvel—we shall not name her Soames—into the care of Sir Julien and his men, who will return her to our court where she shall remain whilst we remedy her marriage. It will not be without difficulty, but with your explanation and other documents attained, we believe the Church will grant our wish.
As when first he had read the missive, Durand questioned those other documents. Possibly from Sir Elias, but who else?
Until we have a determination, you are to take command of the half dozen knights Sir Julien delivers you at Broehne. Also accompanying him are Baron Rodelle’s knights who sought to prevent you from following Lady Beata aboard ship. They have learned the folly of defying their king and queen and will prove useful in holding the barony of Wiltford until this tiresome business is done.
Durand gripped the back of his neck. Tested. Again. But he would do as commanded and, despite his anger toward Beata’s father, be as civil as possible.
A missive to Baron Rodelle goes before this one, advising him of the consequences should you meet resistance upon your arrival and ordering his lady wife removed to a convent per her wishes. Once we are content, our great heiress shall return to Wiltford, and you will ensure she makes a good marriage. We pray this missive finds you well and as loyal as ever, our gallant monk.
With control that made his hands quake, he rolled the missive, then looked across the land for one last glimpse of Beata. It could not be had.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Normandy, France
Late January, 1162
The crossing had been cold but uneventful. And rife with memories of when last she was upon the narrow sea. Never would she wish that tragic journey repeated, but she had longed for the hours…days…weeks with Durand. And like a girl, she imagined how she would do things differently.
A useless exercise. Only in her dreams would her ending and his play the same sweet note. The best she might have managed was not to love him so well she could find no contentment with another. Even were she destined for Soames, her father’s choice of husband would likely have been acceptable. Despite that foul examination, the baron had seemed honorable, especially compared to many who had passed in and out of her years with Conrad. Providing her family’s terrible trespass against his had remained beneath the leaves, it might have been a decent life.
Leaving behind what could have been, returning to what was, Beata guessed an hour had passed while she waited for admittance to the queen’s private apartments. With a sigh, she thrust up off the bench and strode opposite.
She was not going anywhere. At court and under close watch, there was nowhere to go. She simply could not sit still any longer.
The door opened, and she swung around.
The lady there frowned Beata up and down and, likely believing The Vestal Widow thought to flee, scowled. “Lady Beata, a command you were given, a command you were to keep.”
Smoothing the skirts of another gown Aimee had altered, Beata hastened forward. “I have. I but needed to ease the ache in my back.”
Looking doubtful, the woman said, “The queen will receive you,” and motioned her to enter.
The central room was large, lavish, and well attended. Though Beata fastened her eyes on the woman who sat at its center on a modestly proportioned chair that made her appear of greater stature, she counted four ladies to the right, two knights to the left, a woman of middle years before the great hearth, and a wizened clerk at a writing desk.
She had known she would not like her audience with Eleanor, but all the worse it would be in the presence of so many.
She halted just inside the chamber, and the queen made her steely regard felt before turning up a hand and sweeping her fingers toward her palm. “Come, Lady Beata. We would see how genuine your remorse for the deception and ill use of a most favored knight.”
Beata continued forward. Ten feet from the queen, she bowed. And there she remained, growing increasingly uncomfortable.
“Rise, Lady Beata.”
Hoping her hurting heart presented as remorse, she met the queen’s gaze.
“It shall suffice,” Eleanor pronounced, “though by the time we are done, methinks your regret will be more deeply felt.”
Beata clasped her hands at her waist, and seeing the queen’s eyes narrow on them, guessed Soames’s ring offended. “May I ask what is to happen, Your Majesty? How we are to proceed?”
Eleanor eased back in her chair and sent her gaze around the chamber. “We would speak with Lady Beata in private. Lady Yola, Sir Calais, and Edwin, you may remain.”
Though it was yet an audience, Beata was grateful it was no longer a crowd. As the door closed at her back, she glanced at the lady at the hearth, the clerk at his desk, and the knight alongsi
de the queen.
“For a time,” Eleanor said, “we shall not know with certainty your fate, though not as long a time had Baron Soames not made this matter easier for us.”
Beata stiffened. What did she mean? That in hopes of a great concession, he had informed her of his father’s murder as Durand believed he would do?
She took a step forward, took it back when the knight shifted as if in preparation to defend his liege. “Then Baron Soames has also informed you of…” She moistened her lips. “…his father’s passing?”
The queen raised an eyebrow.
Belly taking up its increasingly familiar ache, Beata pressed a hand to it. “You have decided to permit our marriage as compensation—”
“Nay, Lady Beata, we have not. Nor shall we. Such a decision would encourage others to defy their sovereign in the belief they know better than we. Not that Baron Soames is not in need of a wife. Indeed, he is more in need than thought, as evidenced by his inability to control his mother.”
“I do not understand.”
“’Twas not he who informed us of your family’s sin but the Lady of Lexeter. Her missive arrived before her son’s, but whereas Baron Soames expressed a wish to see your marriage annulled—”
“He did?” Beata exclaimed.
Annoyance flashed across Eleanor’s face, but there was a glimmer of pleasure in her eyes. She liked her subjects less informed. “He told he was not thinking clearly, that he had no wish to offend his king and queen—unlike others—and assured us your marriage had not been and would not be consummated. Hence, easier it is to undo your vows and see the heiress of Wiltford wed to one more fitting.”
Though Soames was not to be her husband, there was comfort in knowing she had not judged his character too harshly. What did not comfort was the realization his lack of opposition to the annulment would more quickly see her wed to another. But she supposed the sooner the smallest crumb of hope for Durand was devoured, the sooner she could truly accept life without him.
