by Tamara Leigh
They would have been discovered had she not stumbled forward and given that emotion to her father.
“There now,” he said gruffly and enfolded her, “I am here, Daughter. And well, I vow.”
Forehead pressed to his shoulder, hands gripping his tunic, tresses of her beautifully failing braid brushing her cheek, she choked, “I have missed you. How I have missed you!”
“Truly?” It was said with surprise.
Standing in the shadow of her proclamation, Durand noted her left hand with its pale band of flesh at the base of that finger. Soon another’s ring would cover it.
Feeling the gaze of the man he now called friend, only for that friendship did he respond to its beckoning.
Elias smiled sorrowfully.
These past months, Durand had not spoken of his feelings for Beata, but the troubadour knight had, though not cruelly and with only enough teasing to distract his friend during his darkest moments.
Durand looked to Sir George, and seeing the man watched him, turned on his heel. “Come, the Baron of Wiltford has ordered refreshments.”
Not true. No longer did Beata’s father take an interest in the workings of his household or administration of the demesne though Durand pressed for his involvement. Apathy was his daily bread. Hopefully, Beata’s return would change that and Sir George would welcome his father-in-law’s participation.
Durand entered the hall ahead of the others, and what followed was the most tasteless meal he had ever pushed past his lips. Throughout, he withheld his gaze from Beata, who sat with her father on one side of her and Sir George on the other. But he knew she also lacked an appetite, Baron Rodelle entreating her to eat and once scolding her for being too thin.
Though Durand had not earlier ventured past her face, a moment before their eyes had met, he had noted her hollow cheeks.
Lord, I would not have her suffer so. Let the queen’s instructions see me gone from Heath Castle this day so we may begin our journeys opposite each other.
A half hour later, they were that much nearer their parting when Baron Rodelle announced the meal’s end as he had not done in months.
Sir Julien was among the first to rise. “Baron Rodelle, it is time I discharge my duty to Her Majesty so Sir Durand may be discharged of his.”
Then my wish is granted, Durand thought. This day I leave her. Once I am many leagues distant—and years—I shall be glad.
“As the queen’s missive is of a sensitive nature, Sir Durand,” the knight continued, “it is to be delivered in private.”
“Surely it is not for my eyes alone?” Durand was certain Baron Rodelle ought to be privy to it. And Beata and Sir—
Nay, they knew what the queen required. Just as Durand knew without reading Eleanor’s words.
“It is not,” Sir Julien agreed. “Her Majesty but advises the gathering be intimate and include Baron Rodelle, Lady Beata, Sir George, and any other you think will make the transfer of Wiltford to its successor more palatable.”
Sir Elias cleared his throat. “If you would allow it, Sir Durand, I shall join you.”
He wanted to refuse, but though he might deny himself the comfort of having a friend near, he could not deny Beata the same, especially after the storm weathered in her father’s arms.
“So be it,” he said and stepped from his chair.
Not until halfway across the hall, the steward’s quarters his destination, did he realize he had once more forgotten one of the most basic lessons taught him at Wulfen. He had not thought through his actions. Considering the last time he had been in that room with Beata, they should not go there. Better he had cleared the hall. But it was done.
The steward being absent, Durand crossed to the writing desk lit by candles and turned to watch the others enter. Elias came last and closed the door, positioned himself behind Beata who stood with down-turned face between her father and the next Baron of Wiltford, and placed a hand on her shoulder.
Sir Julien halted alongside Durand and withdrew the missive.
The wax seal was not entirely intact, having journeyed far, but enough to evidence none before Durand had set eyes on the queen’s words.
He broke what remained of the seal, and as he straightened the parchment, once more betrayed his resolve by giving his gaze to Beata. Her own was fixed on the floor.
Lord he silently prayed, give us the strength to accept what cannot be changed.
Turning to the side, less the need to direct candlelight onto the parchment than an excuse to conceal emotions that might shame him—worse, once more loose Beata’s emotions—he read what was written by Eleanor’s own hand.
I, Eleanor, by the grace of God queen of England, duchess of Normandy and Aquitaine, and countess of Anjou, to Sir Durand Marshal. Greetings. By these words know our determination is final. Do the Rodelles wish the barony of Wiltford to remain inheritable, it is possible only through Lady Beatrix Fauvel, and then if she weds one of whom we approve. We can do no more for that family and will not. However, we shall do the lady one further kindness in allowing her to choose between two we deem worthy.
Two? Durand glanced at Beata.
Did she know the missive’s contents? Nay, that was not the way of Eleanor who believed a lesson taught was of little value. It must be learned. In this she was like Baron Wulfrith—on the surface. It was no game the latter played. His lessons were for the betterment of the knight in training and those dependent on him. The queen’s lessons as much, if not more, benefitted her. As Durand had himself assumed, Beata likely thought Sir George’s accompaniment indicated he was Eleanor’s choice of a husband. But there was another possibility.
Conscious of how tightly he gripped the missive for how much he longed to gather its every edge into a fist, he continued reading.
The first who has proven loyal to his sovereign is Sir George Pichard who travels with Lady Beatrix. We have long known his sister and consider him the better choice of husband for his calming influence upon the lady that made it rare for us to correct her during her stay at court.
Durand did not believe it, certain a subdued Beata had more to do with how difficult these months had been.
The second choice of a husband is the same as one of those whose name was written in the missive lost at sea, which directed Baron Rodelle as to whom we approved to wed his daughter in the event of his infant son’s death. Regrettably, we expect Lady Beatrix will choose this knight over Sir George, depriving us of the services of one with whom we might not otherwise part. His name is Sir Durand Marshal.
A loud breath escaped Durand, threatening to empty him of all sense of time and place—worse, reality.
Hands quaking, he gripped his left around the desk’s edge and, praying he did not deceive himself, swept his gaze back to the beginning of this section of the queen’s missive.
He read it again, rasped, “Dear Lord,” and looked to Beata.
Her chin was up, fear flying from her eyes.
He nearly called her to him, but the queen had more to say, and it could bode ill to assume only good was in the rest of the missive. Feeling every pound of his heart, he continued reading.
See, our gallant monk, we told we would find a wife for you, and so we have. Though our Lord Husband expresses doubt over matching you with the lady, we have decided the lands she brings to the marriage are adequate compensation for the trials such a wife will prove. That is, providing she chooses the one whose letter of love I am told she keeps upon her person.
He frowned. No letter of love had he written Beata. Thinking an explanation would be given in Eleanor’s final words, he returned to the missive.
And now we laugh, delighting in how well we know our subjects. Unless Lady Beatrix is witless, it is your ring she shall wear, and that ring we have entrusted to Sir Julien that the lady shall ever be reminded of her gratitude for the lifelong gift we bestow. As for Baron Soames, we must share that his name was written alongside yours in the lost missive. Woe to him and Baron Rodelle, though we also believe Lad
y Beata would have chosen you over him. Do not delay in sending a reply, our gallant monk who shall no longer be untouchable, and as we expect you to bring your wife to court this year, do not too soon get her with child. Fare well.
Chest so bound it was difficult to draw enough air to speak, Durand released his hold on the desk and turned to Beata.
He had kept her waiting too long. Face washed of color, she quaked so visibly Elias had pushed a place for himself between Sir George and her and put an arm around her shoulders.
“Say aye,” Durand rasped.
Her eyes flicked to the missive. “Durand?”
“Say aye, Beata.” He sounded desperate, but he did not care.
“Go to him, dear lady,” Elias said and released her.
She stepped forward, but Baron Rodelle caught her arm and demanded, “What is this, Sir Durand?”
Beata pulled free. With measured steps, as if to move any faster would dash her feet out from under her, she crossed the room. “Is it really so terrible?” she whispered. “I behaved. I vow, I did.”
Durand longed to take her in his arms and assure her they were not forever destined to cross paths and ache over each hopeless crossing—but his emotions were so stirred he could not think how to say it, especially with an audience.
She touched his sleeve. “Durand?”
“All is well.” He held out the missive.
She took it, and her fingers touched his, the contact too lingering to be accidental.
“We have time aplenty, Beata,” he said low.
Her frown increased, but she bent her head and began to read.
Her subtle reactions allowed him to track her place among the words, but there was nothing subtle about her response to his name written there. She went very still as if re-reading that section as he had done, then something between a gasp and a cry parted her lips and her knees failed.
Durand caught her up and pulled her to him, crumpling the missive between them. As she pressed her face against his chest and began sobbing, he looked to the three before the door.
Sir George appeared confused, Elias pleased, and Baron Rodelle outraged.
Durand returned his gaze to his friend, pointedly looked between the men on either side of him, and inclined his head.
“Come, Baron Rodelle…Sir George,” Elias said. “Lady Beata and her betrothed are in need of privacy.”
“Betrothed?” her father exclaimed. “My daughter will not wed a landless knight.”
“Landless no more,” Elias said and, with Sir Julien’s aid, cleared the steward’s quarters.
When the door closed, Durand swept Beata into his arms with too little effort. Silently vowing he would see her back to a good weight, he carried her to the armchair near the brazier and settled her on his lap.
She continued to cry, every ache of these past months wringing itself out. And all he could do as he waited for her to exhaust herself was savor the feel of the woman he had first encountered across a frozen field—a vexing lady he would never have believed he would want more than any other.
At last, she drew up a handful of skirts and wiped her face, but when she looked to him, uncertainty bruised her eyes. “Ever you were a choice. Ever ’twas you. Unless… Pray, tell me Eleanor does not play with us. I cannot bear to be happy if it is not to last.”
“Not a game, Beata love.” He eased the wrinkled missive from her fingers. “I shall read the rest to you.”
When he finished, there were more tears, but she smiled through these. “We are home, Durand. We are both of us home.”
He dropped the missive and cupped her face. “A longer road I have not traveled.”
Shifting around, she slid her hands over his shoulders and around his neck, but as she leaned up to offer her mouth, he said, “Letter of love?”
She flashed her prettily gapped smile. “He is of few years. He is warrior enough to protect. He is man enough to provide the joy of children. He has heart enough to love and be loved. He is my greatest—my only—chance at happiness.”
Recalling the ink of those words left on her that had been visible for days thereafter, Durand silently thanked the Lord for allowing her to drag him into her mess and prove she was worth more than all the trouble of making her his own.
He chuckled. “Is that what I wrote?”
Now her mouth was so close he felt her smile. “You know ’tis, Durand Marshal, but if you must verify, I do keep upon my person the copy gifted me by the queen.”
He lifted his lids, with his own eyes drank deep the bright green of hers. “I begin to remember.”
She gave a murmur of approval, but when she touched her lips to his, he dropped his head back. “You forget yourself, my lady. Ere we proceed, I require an answer.”
She laughed. “Aye, I will wed you. Aye, I will protect your heart—beware, most fiercely. Aye, I will bear your children. Aye, I will love and be loved. Aye, Durand. Aye.”
He pushed fingers through her hair, loosed the last of her braid, and drew her mouth back to his. “I love you, my beautifully vexing Beata.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Barony of Wiltford, England
May, 1162
Lothaire Soames. At the eastern end of the meadow bordering the wood, the baron sat tall in the saddle and yet loose, as if to avoid appearing the adversary. Providing he had good cause to be upon Wiltford, especially on this day, Durand had no quarrel with him. But he would not be surprised if a quarrel was in the making.
“Three warriors to our seven,” Elias mused as they neared those whom Heath’s men-at-arms had encountered while patrolling the land and wood surrounding the castle.
Abel grunted. “Were our numbers reversed, still we would have the advantage. The question is—where are the rest of Soames’s men?”
As Durand also wished answered. It was fool enough to pass near Heath, but with so few? Resenting the baron’s trespass that, though discreetly revealed to the new Lord of Wiltford, had made it necessary for the groom to excuse himself from the wedding feast, Durand said, “I neglect my bride. Let us hear the tale he weaves and be done with it.”
Abel on one side of him, Elias on the other, they spurred forward and reined in before the Baron of Lexeter and his men who kept close company with those who had intercepted them.
“Sir Durand Marshal.” Soames dipped his head, causing the hank of hair Durand had months past freed from its leather thong to slip forward, evidencing too little time had passed for it to remedy its length. “I am not displeased to see you again.”
An interesting means of lying, but a lie, and not only because of how they had left off outside the church at Epswich.
Durand settled his hands atop his saddle’s pommel. “I believe you are aware you interrupt a wedding celebration.”
“I am, though ’tis not my intention.”
“Is it not?”
“This I vow. My men and I but pass through on our return to Lexeter. Many a league of hard riding is saved in going by way of Wiltford.”
Abel gave a grunt of laughter.
Soames shot his gaze to him. “You think I lie?”
“I do not dispute your trespass across another’s lands will more quickly deliver you home,” Abel said drily, “only your purpose on Wiltford.”
A muscle ticked at the baron’s jaw. “You are?”
“Sir Abel Wulfrith.”
“Wulfrith.” Soames looked back at Durand. “You keep good company, Sir Durand.”
“Now Baron Marshal,” Elias entered the conversation, a harsh edge to his voice that told he held Soames as responsible for his tainted drink as he had Beata’s father.
A slight smile taking the stiff out of Soames’s mouth, he considered the gold, heavily embroidered tunic Beata had fashioned for Durand’s wedding day finery, next the side-laced leather boots whose soles would become worn when Durand danced his wife around the hall this eve. “And so this day we are made equals,” he said and sighed. “A pity.”
Dur
and raised his eyebrows. “A pity?”
“Selfish me. I truly hoped to gain your sword arm so I might better my own—even after you stole my bride.”
“Now and evermore my bride.”
“I do not argue that. Did I, I would have contested the annulment rather than testify that vows which should not have been spoken were unconsummated.”
Durand inclined his head. “We are grateful this day was all the sooner possible for you having seen your error.”
Soames shifted in the saddle, squinted against the sunlight of a day absent clouds—providing one did not cast him in that role. “My error…” He returned his regard to Durand. “It was ill of me to force Lady Beata to speak vows. But I was angry, the same as you would be did you learn after twenty years of silence that your father was murdered, and by one of the family with whom you sought an alliance.”
“That I cannot argue,” Durand said.
“Good. Then you will understand there is something I want, which is far less than what is due my family.”
“Speak.”
“The location of my father’s body so he may be removed from whatever unconsecrated ground Baron Rodelle dumped him in. Properly buried, my grieving mother may begin to heal.”
The request was not unexpected. The only surprise was it had not come sooner. Expecting it, Durand had tried to persuade Beata’s father to tell where he had buried the baron, but he would not discuss it.
“We understand your mother was not as willing to accept the dissolution of your marriage,” Durand said.
Soames’s nostrils flared. “The people of Lexeter have suffered much since the murder of its baron. Hence, my mother’s need to heal. And you need to give an answer, Sir Durand.”
Now he looked the adversary, threat in his posture, voice, and the slighting of his equal’s title.
“Be assured, I seek an answer,” Durand said. “When I have it, you will receive it.”
“Make it soon,” Soames said, then smiled so broadly the expression was almost believable. “Now, I shall allow you to return to the wedding celebration. Tell your bride I wish her all happiness.”
