Memories of the Heart

by Marylyle Rogers

  * * *

  In a sturdy wooden keep some distance east from Castle Westbourne yet not nearly so far as the Welsh princedom of Llechu was west, two men uneasily waited in a small chamber to be summoned into the presence of its lord. They shared a single bench but with as much open space between them as possible—a sign of their mutual mistrust.

  “Lloyd was not responsible for the attack on Lord Taliesan,” Ulrich flatly stated, pleased to possess information on a matter of importance unknown by his brother.

  “How can you be so certain?” Simeon instantly scoffed at the mere suggestion that Ulrich could ever be better informed about this subject than was he. “Are you such a fool as to believe that all within Westbourne’s borders are loyal?”

  “Nay, that foolish I am not.” As Ulrich snarled back irritation reddened his visage. “But I do know Lloyd is innocent.”

  Simeon made a dismissive gesture with one angular arm. “How could you possibly be sure of that?”

  Staring directly into the other’s eyes, Ulrich proudly proved himself the one far more knowledgeable. “Because I shot that arrow myself.”

  “How interesting.” This unexpected observation by a third voice startled the brothers into silence. News of Lloyd’s imprisonment disturbed the speaker for who could be certain what information the Welshman might barter for his freedom or, more importantly, his life? “But how did you escape detection?”

  The seat on which the waiting two had been sitting rocked wildly as they jumped to their feet and faced the baron they’d both come to see—though separately and neither with any intention of meeting the other.

  The ever-blustering Ulrich immediately produced an answer. “Good fortune smiled on my endeavor in that by happenstance the already distrusted Lloyd was near enough to bear the blame.”

  While his considerable bulk blocked the doorway, the keep’s lord ignored this uninvited visitor’s hasty words to instead continue down his own verbal path.

  “I am not surprised by your arrival, Simeon.” Lord James motioned toward the cohort he deemed of dubious loyalty. “But Sir Ulrich, your visit is unforeseen and more than a little disturbing.” His unblinking stare added gravity to his next words. “I trust you can allay my concerns?”

  “Aye, milord,” Ulrich instantly defended himself while moving two paces nearer his inquisitor. “I believe I can ease your distrust and convince you of the value in accepting my support for your cause.”

  “You aren’t asking to join my garrison, are you?” As the baron’s coldly mocking tone made it clear that the prospect was unwelcome, Ulrich promptly shook his head.

  “I will continue as a member of Westbourne’s garrison.” An ingratiating smile curled thick lips. “I merely ask that you consider how valuable it might be to have an ally within.”

  “Only if that ally is trustworthy.” The baron didn’t bother to hide his skepticism nor did he see any good purpose in revealing that he’d already arranged for such an ally. “More importantly why should I trust a knight guilty of such treachery against his own lord?”

  Ulrich indignantly refuted the blatant insult with hasty words.

  “My lord, I pray that you will command my brother Simeon to speak true of the decades I’ve given in unbending loyalty first to Lord William and then his son, Lord Taliesan—”

  “Whom you attempted to shoot with an arrow,” Simeon gleefully derided. “A poison-tipped arrow, I’m told.” With this display of his own knowledge of the event he meant to emphasize Ulrich’s wrong.

  Ulrich snapped back, “Not until after Lord Tal dishonored me!”

  “Dishonored you?” Attention firmly caught, the keep’s lord motioned his visitors to sit again before stepping fully into the room and quietly shutting the door. “How?”

  * * *

  At midafternoon of the next day the sun was only partially hidden by drifting clouds as an impressive band of visitors approached Castle Westbourne. The cart at its center hosted a silk awning which wordlessly proclaimed the importance the person within. It was a signal supported by the heavily armed guardsmen riding on each side.

  Before a report of their arrival could be directly taken to Lady Angwen she grandly descended the outer stairwell. Although this guest was arriving at least a day earlier than reasonably expected, Angwen crossed the crowded courtyard to greet her.

  “Lady Edith of Farleith—” Angwen carefully chose the words, well aware that they would soon be carried far and wide. “Welcome to the home of your future.”

  This gracious greeting succeeded in its secondary purpose by drawing the attention of a great many while one of this visitor’s own guardsmen dismounted and gallantly assisted the wisp of a girl in descending to face Lady Angwen.

  Looking even younger than her thirteen years, Edith forced a gaze she would have preferred to keep lowered to lift and meet her hostess’s scrutiny.

  Angwen had arranged the girl’s betrothal to Taliesan, but she’d never before met Edith. However, she hadn’t expected the hearty Lord James’s daughter to be so meek … and pale. Was she ill? Pray not! It was far too late to change plans. And besides the lord of Farleith had sons aplenty but no other daughters.

  “Come, I’m sure your journey was fatiguing.” Angwen earnestly hoped that this was the reason for the unexpectedly young girl’s wan appearance. “No doubt you would appreciate a quiet time to rest before the evening meal.”

  Striving not to cringe beneath the weight of too many staring eyes even while fighting to neither sign the cross nor audibly chant the rosary, Edith followed her hostess’s lead through the curious throng and up the exterior stairway.

  Once the noble guest was comfortably settled in the bedchamber across the narrow corridor from her own, Angwen retreated to the family solar. There, despite Vevina’s presence, Angwen would have undisturbed time to devise the best strategy for the next step in a plan to see her son protected against both political foes and Welsh witches.

  In order to greet the future bride, Angwen had left Vevina to work alone on the sizable tapestry. Now on her return Angwen was far too tense to risk its precise pattern by plying her needle. Instead she forced herself to calmly sit at the table without fidgeting like some foolish child.

  Because Tal knew even less about his intended bride than she did, Angwen had initially been amazed by how easily her son agreed when she suggested this union. But then she’d realized how foolish it was to question Tal’s reasons. After all, Earl Robert of Gloucester had long proclaimed him the most adept tactician in England. She originally thought that the protection afforded by this marriage bond was her idea, but Tal had undoubtedly recognized its value even before she broached the possibility.

  While Vevina quietly worked her needle with years of experience, Angwen mentally chided herself to return attention to the challenge at hand. The already arranged betrothal itself wasn’t the problem to be overcome. The challenge was how best to introduce the pair of strangers—today.

  Early this morn Tal had departed on his day’s duties unaware of his intended bride’s imminent arrival. Angwen herself hadn’t expected Edith’s arrival so soon. Tal wouldn’t be pleased by this unannounced event yet Angwen had rather handle her son’s irritation with her than see him fall victim to the young witch too near.

  Suddenly Angwen saw the perfect way to arrange not only this meeting of the couple soon to be betrothed but a method to ensure that Ceridwen would be indisputably aware that Lady Edith was an immovable barrier between her and Tal.

  Quite pleased with her strategy, Angwen promptly rose to summon Godfrey. The seneschal’s aid was necessary to set the scene for a private evening meal here in the family solar—one at which Ceri would serve.

  * * *

  At the same time in a keep small but proudly built of stone, a peddler bowed his angular form low before the lovely, golden-haired woman seated on a dais at one side of its main chamber.

  “Lady Blanche—” In a voice oozing with the sticky honey of false flattery
he said, “As I promised after bringing you the message from a Westbourne servant, I traveled on to Farleith and there learned the answer to your question.”

  “Which is?” Blanche snapped, pale blue eyes flashing a silent warning to stop wasting her time with foolish delays.

  “The baron’s daughter, Edith, journeyed to Castle Westbourne today. There she’ll tarry while its lady trains her to assume that position as Lord Taliesan’s wife.” The peddler rubbed his bony hands together with smug pleasure for having uncovered this requested information. “Their betrothal ceremony’s date has yet to be set but will be very soon.”

  “Edith traveled there today?” Blanche absently repeated. “Then my plan must be set into motion with greater haste.”

  The peddler’s brows rose but he knew far better than to answer comments clearly not addressed to him.

  * * *

  In the courtyard a weary Tal swung down from his destrier and handed the reins to his squire. He was considerably later than usual in returning to his castle. The heavy rains of several nights past had caused a small brook to overflow and badly damage one of his demesne’s outlying farms. More than supervising the repairs, he’d helped clear away huge rocks that had washed down the stream’s slight slope to block a bend, backing water up to flood the desperate farmer’s entire crop.

  On finally reaching his home Tal was tired, hungry, and anxious to drop onto something that didn’t move. But just inside the dim stone tunnel whose end was the castle entrance his goal was frustrated when Sir Godfrey waylaid him with unwelcome news.

  “Lord Taliesan,” the seneschal sonorously intoned, “your mother, the Lady Angwen, has been impatiently awaiting your return. I fear the fine meal she arranged has gone cold in the family solar.”

  Tal knew himself trapped. Though desperately wishing he could retreat to his own chamber, shed the coarse garments worn under chain mail, and be rid of the day’s grime, Tal chose to promptly go and handle whatever difficulty was troubling his mother. Only after that was done would he be free to seek a night’s undisturbed peace.

  Chapter 11

  Slowed by a long and tiring day that made his tread heavier, Taliesan moved steadily up stone steps. He earnestly hoped whatever had so upset his mother that she’d arranged a private meal in the solar could be easily dealt with and quickly done. Then he would be freed for a peaceful night’s rest—perhaps even a visit to his dreams by the compassionate angel who had recently appeared in reality.

  Arriving at the castle’s top level, Tal began striding down its dividing corridor. Before he reached the solar door, it swung open.

  “Tal, you are woefully late,” Angwen reproached her son but, as if recognizing a wrong, she gave him a bright smile. “Our guest, I fear, is hungry while our food is going cold so do hasten to your seat and delay the meal no longer.”

  Dark brows arched. Guest? The same brows crashed into a forbidding scowl protesting this unpleasant surprise.

  “Come—” Angwen stepped aside, opening Tal’s view of the room beyond while she motioned toward a pale stranger. “Meet Lady Edith, your bride-to-be.”

  “A surprise visit?” Tal’s dark gaze narrowed on the unexpected guest with hair near as colorless as her face—and surely far younger than he’d understood this potential bride to be when agreeing to negotiations for their union. In truth, she couldn’t be as old as his squire, Thomas. Though many of his peers found no wrong in taking wives of even more tender years, Tal already felt like this apprehensive child’s father.

  “Nay,” Angwen promptly denied. “A lengthy stay much discussed and now agreed upon by her father, Lord James. Edith has joined us here in the castle, allowing me to more effectively train her in duties she’ll assume as your wife, the countess of Westbourne.” With these phrases Angwen purposefully cast a sidelong glance toward a somber Ceri.

  While mother and son exchanged strained words, the solar’s other two occupants made their own judgments on this confrontation and the wickedly handsome lord at its center.

  Seated at the small table on a third chair brought specially to accommodate her, Edith nervously watched her intended groom. Lord Taliesan was intimidatingly attractive but with a dark frown so terrifying that again she was forced to restrain the instinct to cross herself against unknown dangers. That he’d come to the meal still grimed from the day’s labors and garbed in its soiled clothes suggested a regrettable indifference to refined sensitivities.

  While the aloof guest studied Tal with distrust, from the shadows to one side of the open door Ceri waited to serve. From that position, she could clearly see her love’s weariness and the tension it deepened. Concern for Tal drove into hiding Ceri’s own unhappiness over this devastating news of a bride, a bride whose dowry and political connections would no doubt strengthen the proposed union.

  Tal easily withstood Edith’s critical appraisal but the silver-green mists of Ceri’s gaze irresistibly summoned his attention. Answering that beguiling call, he willingly slipped into their calm pools of sweet compassion.

  “Tal, come.” Angwen harshly sundered the visual bond, symbol of an attraction she had planned this scene to see permanently put at an end. “Take your seat and keep us waiting no longer.”

  Tal settled into his place at the overcrowded table and engaged the pale child in the manner of polite conversation incumbent upon him as host.

  Relieved that her son had yielded to an unspoken demand for right treatment of the bride-to-be, Angwen issued a further and most pointed order.

  “Ceri, pour the wine and then return to the kitchens below.” Angwen’s cold arrogance was abundantly evident in this brusque command. “I’m sure you still have many duties waiting to be done.”

  Both Ceri and Tal recognized these words for precisely what they were meant to be—a reminder of Ceri’s far inferior position in life.

  Ceri did as Lady Angwen bade her, glad to depart this chamber filled with a deafening roar of silent discord and overstrained tension.

  * * *

  One day later Ceri was busy delivering platters of food for another evening meal when storm clouds abruptly gathered to block the vivid glory of a sun beginning to sink over the western horizon. On noticing the too rapid descent of evening gloom, she had only a brief instant to spare in wondering what ill it portended.

  The answer to that query literally arrived while she and Mary were pouring a final round of ale at lower tables.

  In the great hall’s opening of the stone tunnel leading from outer door and exterior stairway beyond, Godfrey firmly thumped his staff. That distinctive sound reverberated from tunnel throughout the large chamber, demanding attention. Once the dull roar calmed and he stood as the focus of attention, Godfrey made a sonorous announcement.

  “Lady Blanche of Bendale Keep.”

  Ceri went still, clutching the near empty pitcher to her breasts as the seneschal stepped aside to motion this newly arrived visitor to enter. A tall, willow-slender beauty of golden hair and azure eyes gracefully skirted the central firepit to glide down the open space between lower tables and approach the dais.

  “Lady Angwen, I have come to accept your gracious offer to welcome my visit when last we met.” Lady Blanche’s smile was blinding but her attention almost immediately shifted from Angwen’s face to settle on her handsome son.

  Angwen was quick to smooth away the frown instantly summoned by this claim of a past invitation. She didn’t remember having ever made such an offer—something she was exceedingly unlikely to forget. A strong woman herself, Angwen neither trusted nor welcomed the company of another. Further reason to be certain she had never invited the woman to visit Westbourne.

  “After my recent devastating loss—” Blanche’s smile seemed to crumple into a woeful grimace, an undeniable expression of lingering sorrow. “I am sorely in need of the type of gentle company to which I fear my brother’s home will never be host.”

  This forlorn reference to her serious reversal of fortunes made it nearly impos
sible for Angwen to heartlessly send the woman away. Acknowledging this unpleasant reality, Angwen painted a tight smile on her lips and replied.

  “You have our most sincere sympathies.”

  Tal watched the uncomfortable scene playing out before him. Somehow Blanche had inherited all the strength of will that her younger and only brother so seriously lacked. The question was where did her loyalties truly lay? Her now deceased husband had been a loyal supporter of the king, but Tal knew Blanche well enough to realize that such political union was no true indicator of her choice.

  No matter, he signaled the steward to lay another place at the high table just beyond the other lady guest on his left.

  In the hall still unnaturally quiet Blanche promptly took her assigned seat with a small but charmingly grateful smile.

  “I assume you already know Lady Edith of Farleith Keep?” Tal asked, motioning Blanche’s attention to the younger woman.

  “I’m sure we must have met although I don’t remember when.” Blanche spared a slight, insincere smile while critically studying the child for long moments before returning attention to the earl with a query meant to seem surprised from her lips.

  “Tal, surely you can’t believe this pale and plainly bloodless child able to survive the blaze of your passions?”

  Eyebrows rose to accompany the rush of gasps and hushed whispers that immediately flowed unimpeded throughout the hall while Blanche’s smile curled into one more suggestive and coyly seductive.

  In the shadows between two wall sconces along one side of the massive chamber, Ceri’s pained moan went unnoticed. The blatant intimacy in this new guest’s observation had driven a dagger of pain straight through her heart.

  In that same moment the young guest from Farleith awkwardly rose from her seat and after hastily begging leave to retreat, rushed from the hall. As Edith passed on her way to the corner stairwell, Ceri caught a glimpse of tears glowing on pale cheeks. She recognized the pain Lady Blanche’s words must have caused this young girl and, sharing her distress, quickly followed.