The pronouncement rumbled from the abbot’s chest, where her ear was pressed. A sob heaved out of her, followed by a shudder that wracked her entire form. She shook her head in desperate denial. It can’t be love! ’Tis hopeless, I know!
She wept and wept, letting it all flood out. When her misery subsided and her tears trailed away, he let her pull back out of his embrace.
He asked, “Have you told him? Is that why he looked so miserable?”
“N-Nay,” she hiccupped, “I could never say such a thing! He’s going to wed my sister.”
“Does he love her?”
She shrugged in answer, although she knew he didn’t. Love wasn’t important to him, he’d once said.
“Does she love him?”
“I don’t know,” she said bleakly. “One day she seems to, then the next she says if I wish to resume my rightful place, she won’t stand in my way.”
“Well, there you have it—”
“But I’m worried she said that because she’s fallen for someone else.”
“Oh, dear heavens. Who?”
“One of FitzHenri’s knights.”
Another person entered the chapel but, despondent as she was, she didn’t bother to look up. Whoever it was sat down at her other side.
“What ails her?” Brother Baldric asked Abbot Giles, concern etched deeply in his voice.
“She’s fallen in love,” the abbot said matter-of-factly.
“Ah. FitzHenri?”
“Aye.”
If she hadn’t already been completely mortified that the two celibates had so easily guessed at her malady, she would have sunk right through the floor.
A moment of silence passed. She raised her heated face to find them both nodding sagely.
Father Abbot said, “My dear, you must go back and tell your sister how you feel. Be frank with her. Lady Aislinn is not a child to have matters sweetened up for her. And if she’s in love with another knight… Well, you will never know how she truly feels about her impending marriage unless you talk with her. And then you must tell the earl how you feel.”
“B-But, Father Abbot, I couldn’t.”
“What if he is in love with you, too? Do you wish to hurt him by leaving?”
She gave a mirthless laugh, hoarse from weeping. Grégoire in love with her? Impossible. He might desire her body, but love? She already knew how he felt on the subject.
Brother Baldric scoffed at her response. “’Twould not be so strange if he should love you. You are a comely, accomplished woman, Bridget, and any man would be honored to show you off as his bride.”
She shook her head in denial. “Nay.”
Though she hadn’t recognized it at the time, the possibility that Grégoire could return her feelings had brightened her life considerably the last couple of days. But no longer. Not since her aunt Edyth had laid out the cruel truth. Her harsh words burst through Bridget’s mind. That an earl could never love an unremarkable woman such as Bridget.
Brother Odo entered and joined them on the bench. Once the other two had briefed him on the situation, Brother Odo nodded along with them as they pondered the solutions. Austere and hooded Brother Anselm arrived, taking a place on the bench just behind. He listened in his usual silence, bowing his head, offering wordless support.
The kind monks’ encouragement had begun to elbow out the painful words her aunt had voiced. Aunt Edyth had a twisted view of things.
But Grégoire did not. He was a good man, kind and intelligent. He would never use her so mercilessly, as she’d suggested, nor would he ever harm anyone weaker than himself, as Samson had done. She knew that to the core of her soul.
The abbot urged, “You will never know how the earl feels unless you go to him and ask. Can you ever live a life of peace, not knowing the truth?”
What if the monks were right? What if, against all odds, her sentiments for Grégoire were reciprocated?
“But I’m promised to the Martyred Virgins. ’Twould be a sin to break that commitment. Wouldn’t it?”
The abbot was quick with his answer. “God’s ways are a mystery to us here on earth. I believe He is behind everything, especially the love between a man and woman. If He hadn’t wanted you to fall in love with the earl, He would have seen to it that you didn’t, don’t you think?”
She’d never thought of it that way.
Brother Baldric gave a loud sigh. “My child, truth to tell, I never thought you suited to the monastic life. You like the books and the prayers and the friendships, but you are not cut out for fasting and asceticism. Be honest with yourself. Why did you not depart for the convent the moment your father gave you leave?”
“I…I was always needed. And travel was too dangerous after the Normans arrived.” Or so she’d told herself. But, secretly, she had stayed to see the return of Grégoire FitzHenri, the exotic young count who was to rule Shyleburgh for the new king. And, perhaps, to be talked out of taking the veil—once she understood it was Grégoire who would have been her husband, had she not abdicated to Aislinn.
Her eyes popped with the realization. She’d stayed for him. Sweet St. Hilda! She’d been in love with him all along!
Oblivious to her self-revelation, the abbot skewered her with a warning stare. “A poor excuse. ’Tis because you loved your family and your life at Shyleburgh too much to leave them.”
She couldn’t tell him how Samson had terrified her so much she’d chosen a life in exile from all she cherished, rather than risk wedding a man like him. That she wanted to marry for love but did not expect that ever to be possible.
But then one glorious day, Grégoire had arrived.
God surely did move in mysterious ways…
Abbot Giles continued to muse, the corners of his lips turned down in thought. “I’ve known FitzHenri for some time now. Back in Rouen, he was immensely charitable to the little church where I served. He is one of the most honorable men I’ve met.”
He’d patronized a church back home? A small candle flame began to brighten her insides.
“My dear, the church is not a place to hide away from life. You must face it head on. No lord, not even God, wants cowards and skulkers among His legions.”
She stilled, blinking at him in shock. “Are you calling me a coward, Father Abbot?”
He pursed his lips, looking around at the trio of brothers, who nodded pensively, then looked back at her. “Only you can say whether you are or not, Lady Bridget.” He tilted his head and smiled. “Are you a coward?”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
At Shyleburgh Keep, Grégoire thundered about, his mood black as hell. Everyone ran away at the sight of him, which angered him even more…but secretly gratified him. The day after he delivered Bridget to St. Bede’s, he’d already exhausted every soldier in the yard before breakfast, sparring until they begged for mercy. And that was after a night of virtually no sleep at all. He’d been too restless to sleep, worked up like a caged animal.
To break his fast, he stomped into the hall demanding mead. Aye, he’d come to like the blasted stuff. Quicker than wine, it made him forget how wretched England was.
As he sat alone at the high table, his shoulders caved in around the hollowness in his chest. It alarmed him how sometimes of late it was difficult to draw breath. He really must get some sleep and something hearty to eat. Something better than what these English fed him. His health was beginning to suffer from it. Or mayhap it was this English climate. It was always damp here, the sun rarely shone, and the nights were overly chill compared to home in Normandy.
As soon as the serving girl handed him the gilded horn, he lifted it and downed the golden liquor in one draught. That the servant jumped when he slammed the vessel back down upon the table gave him some measure of satisfaction. He wanted everyone to know he was lord here, damn it.
Dismal didn’t begin describe how wretched this corner of the world was.
And now, Michaelmas loomed, and he would have to wed. Wooing the maid Aislinn no longer
interested him. He was resolved to proceed with marrying her in the usual way. As a man of honor, a liegeman to the king, he would wed the designated daughter of Shyleburgh, whether she came to him willingly or not. But she was dutiful, and would not flinch from that obligation.
And if he didn’t have her love? At least he’d have her marriage vows. What more could he ask? He would be faithful, and hope she would feel the same.
He’d been a fool to think he could win her admiration. You can’t make someone like you, Bridget had said. Smart, perceptive Bridget. She’d been right.
She’d been right about a lot of things, damn her.
He spent the rest of the morning pointing out his squire’s deficiencies at polishing his helmet and demanding the blacksmith improve upon the hardware he fabricated for the horses. Why had both men slackened so badly in their skills? Nothing was good enough. Nothing satisfied.
He waited until he figured everyone else had finished the midday meal before entering the hall for his own repast. He couldn’t face people, couldn’t bear the thought of making small talk or suffering their curious study.
On his way to the table, quiet voices drifted his way. Whispers, more like, followed by feminine laughter, off to the side somewhere. Blast! He didn’t want any company, let alone female such.
Irritation shifted his steps in the direction of the sound, and he soon realized he was approaching the small alcove where Bridget and Karlan had spent so much time. He peered into the space.
His intended sat with her small harp on her lap, her fingers poised over the strings. Sir Albert L’Arbredor leaned close beside her, observing her fingers intently. They were alone. Albert, the flirtatious swain, was alone with his lord’s bride-to-be.
A fireball of fury arched through him.
“Albert,” he said, deadly quiet.
Both the girl and the knave glanced up. The two of them fumbled to their feet, scraping the chair legs over the floor and looking so guilty it was almost laughable.
“My lord!” they cried in unison.
He glared at Albert. “You. Come with me.”
When they were outside in a corner of the bailey, he whirled on the man he had always called his friend. He had allowed his subordinate many freedoms. They were comrades going way back, all the way to their rogue days in Rouen. They’d spent weeks together in Tostig’s death pits at Farrow Beach, starved and tortured. But with this, Albert had gone too far.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” he roared.
“We both like music, ’tis all. Nothing untoward, I assure you.”
“Music, bah. I’ve seen how you look at her.” He shoved his face into Albert’s. “She is not yours.”
His man stood his ground, he’d give him that. Insolent bastard. “Mayhap. But is she yours?”
Grégoire felt his lip curl into a snarl. His body had taken over his brain. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You spend your attentions elsewhere, my lord. It isn’t fair to Aislinn. A bride deserves to feel appreciated and desired.”
“Damn you!” He slammed a fist into Albert’s jaw, sending him reeling. Sir Drogo, out of nowhere, stepped in and assisted Albert to his feet.
Grégoire paced, his fists at the ready for a fight. He was that caged animal again, more dangerous than ever. “That’s right, get him up. Come on, de L’Arbredor. Hit me. Make me kill you.”
Eyes blazing back, Albert wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his fist. “You don’t care about Aislinn. You want Lady Bridget. Just go get the wench and bed her, damn it. Your humors are befuddled.”
Grégoire lunged at him, but Albert was ready and parried. Drogo stepped between them, nearly receiving a fist in the face himself, but Grégoire halted in time. He stared into Drogo’s dark, warrior-monk eyes, longing to bash him in, too.
“Go to Lady Brigitte,” Drogo intoned. “’Tis she you want as bride. Everyone can see that.”
“My lord,” a new voice interrupted. It was Oelwine.
“What is it?” Grégoire barked, both mortified and confounded by Drogo’s words.
“A royal messenger.” His seneschal stepped aside to reveal a richly outfitted emissary attended by an armed escort.
Ignoring Albert, Grégoire marched to his new guests, offering the barest of greetings. He snatched the missive from the courier.
“See to their refreshment and lodging,” he ordered Oelwine with a brusque wave of his hand, and headed for the stairs to his rooms.
Alarm prickled Grégoire’s scalp. He had recognized the seal as his mother’s. Ensconced in his solar, he cracked the seal and unrolled the letter.
Relief flooded over him to find it held no ill tidings. His mother wished to visit his new home in England and meet his new wife before she entered the women’s priory at Jumièges to live out her days in holy devotion.
At his desk, he shoved aside the scrolls and parchments in his way, took up quill and vellum, and penned a reply. Scribbling quickly, he informed his mother he would be happy to have her come, but she would have to await word that it was safe to do so. He spared his mother the details of the peril, but knew she would understand.
As he signed the missive, he slowed. Too bad he was to wed yet another maiden who came to him only out of obligation.
Events could not possibly repeat themselves…could they? The Lady Aislinn did seem quite enthralled with his comely second-in-command. Surely, she would not take such drastic measures to avoid a life with Grégoire as his first wife had done…
Pen in hand, he sat back to think. To wallow in morose thoughts, more like.
A shame his mother would not be meeting Bridget. The two of them would have got on well together. Lady Marie had always been a learned, virtuous woman. And now this, joining a priory in her widowhood. Bridget would have enjoyed picking his mother’s brain.
The air squeezed hard out of him, and he tapped a fist to his breast, where an ache suddenly flared. He needed sustenance. The late meal was a long way off, yet the paltry nourishment of this English food was making him feel peckish.
As he was rising, a neat little scroll with a golden tassel drew his notice. He had pushed it away with the other items covering his desk. But it had never been opened. Puzzled, he reached for it.
The scroll was a reply billet-doux from Lady Aislinn. Unable to stop himself, he leaned his chair back and read the contents of the letter. He smiled instinctively to see Bridget’s hand in the script, with its strict alignment, its meticulous attention to every letter, and the florid curlicue at the end of each line. Just like the woman herself, he thought—precise and correct, but with just enough flourish to entertain.
Memories of that night in her arms, of Bridget awakening from her sensual slumber, crashed hard upon him. He’d never wanted a woman so badly, never wanted a woman’s surrender so thoroughly. Now that she was gone, the cold, long nights in his future stretched out dark and perfunctory. Why hadn’t she wanted him enough to stay?
A black veil of despair lowered over him. He couldn’t believe it. What he’d tried so hard to avoid for a second time had happened—he desired a woman who loved someone else, and she’d abandoned him.
Against his will, his eyes continued to read. About their kiss, and how it had made her feel.
He lunged forward, slamming his feet to the floor. He had yet to kiss Aislinn! Why, then, did the letter wax poetic about horses and embraces and kisses so hot they seared her to her soul?
Because Aislinn had not written it. Bridget had.
Visions of Bridget in his arms swamped him with dizzying potency. Silken flesh, snow white limbs, golden eyes. Unruly tresses. She’d been so receptive, so incredible, losing control at his urging. The way her tender woman’s core wept and pulsed for him as they made love. How her body had satisfied every urging he’d ever had.
While he, himself, had not composed the billet-doux he’d sent Aislinn, he had at least read it before its delivery. If Aislinn had participated in the writing o
f this reply, she wouldn’t have wanted to include outright falsehoods. Would she?
He leaped to his feet and went in search of Lady Aislinn. He found her still in the alcove, sadly strumming her harp.
“Did you compose this letter?” he demanded, brandishing the parchment in his fist.
“Um…” Lady Aislinn squeaked, eyes wide as they darted to the missive.
He scowled, and opened his mouth to blast her. Then snapped it shut.
You must grow up and face her on your own.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep, calming breath, tempering his anger and summoning patience.
When he opened his eyes, he tried again. “Did you write this letter?”
She tentatively reached for the parchment. “Let me see.”
“It’s written in French. Which you don’t know,” he pointed out curtly.
“I read French. Speak, not well.”
Feeling skeptical, he handed over the letter. She held it out and began to study it. Her already wide eyes kept growing. A blush spread up from the base of her throat to color her whole face. She fanned herself with one hand while the vellum shook in her other.
At length, she lowered the letter. “My lord,” she said, stumbling over his language, “These words…I did not speak them.”
“I knew it.” He snatched the parchment back. Confusion reigned in his whole being. The sentiments were all Bridget’s. But, then, why had she repudiated him and left his side with nary a kind good-bye?
“They are from head—” Aislinn pointed to her forehead. Then she pointed to her breast. “Nay, from heart of Bridget. My lord, have you, how do you say…a tendre”—she tapped her breast with her slender fingers—“for my sister?”
He stared at the girl who was meant to be his wife, not knowing what in blazes to reply. Did he care for Bridget? Of course he did. But the girl was mistaken if she thought he loved Bridget. He didn’t love her. He couldn’t. He was a man, a warrior.
The issue was, did Bridget love him?
Aislinn said, “You are…not happy…much angry…after my sister leaves. You did not speak of your tendre?”
He straightened somberly. “You are my betrothed. I would never do that to you, lady.”
Come to Me Page 23
