Memories of the Heart

by Marylyle Rogers

  “Lady Edith misses her brothers.” With these words Tom gave Ceri a rueful smile. “She says I remind her of the one who is her twin.”

  “Lady Edith has a twin brother?” Ceri was momentarily surprised. The next instant she realized how little she or any among the people of Westbourne knew about the young bride-to-be. It was a fact emphasized by the complete absence of kitchen gossip devoted to the girl which in turn was a glaring contrast to the apparently limitless supply of intriguing rumors and tales involving Lady Blanche.

  “Aye,” Tom quickly confirmed, pleased to be one of the few to know something others didn’t. “His name is Eldon and for months he’s been at foster in King Stephen’s court.”

  Though aware that his lord had come to distrust an instinctive approval of Ceridwen, Tom found to his own amazement how easy it was to talk with her. And by this personal contact, Tom soon began to wonder if he hadn’t been wrong in unfairly judging Ceri too perfect to be trusted.

  “Edith sorely misses Eldon but he’s not her only brother.” In response to the other’s slightly arched brows, he nodded and added, “There are others beside—but no sisters.”

  “No sisters?” Ceri’s warm smile had a rueful twist. “Despite that lack, Lady Edith is more blessed than me for I have neither brothers nor sisters.”

  “Weren’t you lonely?” Tom found the notion of being an only child distasteful.

  Silver sparks brightened Ceri’s green-mist eyes. Strange how both Tal and his squire had questioned the same deficiency in her childhood.

  “Nay, I couldn’t miss what I had never known.”

  Ceridwen’s logic earned Tom’s biggest grin and returned a sparkle to his eyes.

  “I am glad that Edith found you. She clearly needs friends in this place of strangers.” The sweet smile that Ceri gave Tom was praise in itself. “It was nice to hear Edith laugh. I had feared her too lost in prayers to commune with such mere mortals as the husband she is destined soon to take.

  Again Tom nodded, this time in agreement with Ceri’s concern for the overserious girl who had so recently taken flight. “When I arrived Lady Edith was already here and lost in prayer.”

  “Here?” Ceri was surprised. “Praying here?”

  Another grin flashed as Tom explained, “The family chapel is being refurbished to host the betrothal ceremony one sennight from today. And between workmen and their supplies there’s no uncluttered space left for Edith to worship.”

  Ceri would swear she felt a leaden heart dropping to her toes. The next instant she chided herself for the foolishness of being caught so ill-prepared by this mention of an upcoming ceremony much discussed by her fellow laborers in the kitchens. A wry smile lent an odd twist to soft lips as Ceri recognized a paradox in the fact that it was the unpleasant distraction of Lady Blanche’s accusations she must thank for diverting bleak attention from the rites ahead.

  Tom thanked Ceri again for not spreading the tasty morsel of gossip involving his chat with Edith. He then wished his companion good fortune, and departed. Alone in the well house’s shadowy interior, Ceri slowly lowered one of the buckets lined up along the walls and vigorously worked the crank to draw up a full measure of the chill water she’d been sent to fetch.

  While toiling, Ceri acknowledged a sad truth. The prospect of success in her quest for happiness looked dim. Although the earl hadn’t directly challenged her, he clearly questioned her loyalty. And it was equally clear that the people of Taliesan’s demesne thought her a threat.

  The death knell to her dreams would assuredly ring with the tolling bells proclaiming betrothal oaths exchanged.

  * * *

  “Aye.” From just inside a bedchamber’s closed door, Mary nodded to the seated Lady Blanche. “It really was most strange. Only by chance did one of the guardsmen on patrol along Westborne’s border with Bendale discover scraps of a letter. Somehow they had become tangled on thorns amongst the undergrowth to one side of their pathway.”

  “’Struth, most strange.” Blanche maintained an idly curious expression to hide avid interest in the answer to her question about a morsel of gossip overheard. She was never loath to quietly glean tidbits of information while moving through crowded areas. It was thus that she’d caught whispered suspicion of a letter involving Bendale when passing the kitchens to reach the garrison’s chamber on its far side and talk with one of her guards.

  “What did these scraps reveal?” Blanche prodded the other woman from Bendale to learn more.

  Mary gave her head a brief, disgusted shake. “Precious little for all the uproar they caused amongst castle inhabitants.”

  “Uproar?” Blanche repeated with a wryly amused smile.

  “Well, perhaps not uproar—” Mary sheepishly shrugged yet almost immediately went on to excuse her claim in small measure. “But here where little else occurs to liven the people’s daily routine, those pieces of parchment assuredly roused intense curiosity.”

  “What could they possibly have said to inspire such interest?” Though Blanche’s tone remained gentle, steady azure eyes firmly demanded an explanation.

  Mary uneasily shifted from one foot to the other. “Only two words clearly: Bendale and welcome.” Meeting the other’s gaze directly, she added, “It was the royal seal that fired wild rumors.”

  “A royal seal?” Blanche’s delicate brows arched. “And on a missive that mentions Bendale? Odd, indeed, as I am certain my brother has had no personal contact with the king.”

  While carefully maintaining her expression of casual curiosity, inside Blanche was amused. Plainly this was what had happened to her missing letter of condolence from King Stephen. Addressed to her at Bendale, it had contained a brief assurance that the widow of a supporter slain in his defense would always be welcome at the royal court. But who had taken the letter for this unsavory purpose and why?

  “But, tell me—” Blanche smoothly shifted the focus of their conversation. “Have you been happy here in Castle Westbourne? Happy in your marriage?”

  “In truth, I bless the day I wed and am most content with my lot here.” A wide smile brightened and added honest beauty to Mary’s plain face. “Only do I wish that my husband were not so long delayed by endless border patrols.”

  “Endless?” Again Blanche wryly questioned Mary’s choice of words.

  “Nay.” Mary blushed. “Not endless and Lord Tal demands far less of his guardsmen than he does of himself. They near always return by dusk while the earl is often required to continue much later in performing various duties of the demesne’s lord. ’Tis why he’s so often delayed for the evening meal.”

  Mary was interrupted by a rapping on the door to which Blanche responded by promptly issuing a brisk order to enter.

  Ceri stepped into the chamber expecting to find the ever unpleasant lady of Bendale. But Ceri was startled to meet Mary’s guilty gaze which she unhappily interpreted as proof that this woman, too, suspected her to be a witch.

  “I was sent to retrieve the small bag containing Lady Edith’s favorite needles.” With the words, Ceri motioned toward the leather packet laid neatly atop a trunk on one side of the bed.

  “Then take it and begone,” Blanche sternly commanded with a condescending glare. “And Mary, I thank you for bringing the cool water requested. I pray it will ease my throbbing head.”

  With these dismissive words, Blanche dipped a cloth square into the basin filled from a pitcher Mary had carried into the room. This she wrung out and folded into a tidy pad, placing it against her brow as she laid back atop the bed.

  * * *

  After the evening meal’s completion, the seneschal dispatched Ceri along with Mary to the great hall to aid in the completion of one further duty.

  Ceri led the way through the portal and into the vast chamber. There, she found another unusual sight. A lone trestle table remained assembled in the vast hall. The benches lining either side were filled with Lord Tal’s knights while he sat at one end in a chair brought down from the dai
s to accommodate him.

  Mary held a platter hosting chunks of cheese along with shelled nuts which she shyly offered to each man in turn. Ceri followed, carrying a heavy crockery pitcher full of ale, methodically pouring a measure of amber liquid into each waiting mug.

  While the two women dutifully performed their tasks, Ceri couldn’t help but hear what was said. And as she leaned forward on a corner at Tal’s elbow to furnish him with ale, she was caught in the thrall of his nearness but not so addlepated that she failed to comprehend what was said.

  “Waste no more time in combing forest paths,” Tal commanded guardsmen already overly wearied by pursuing that course. “Lloyd won’t be found once he’s made it into the wildwood.”

  Tal glanced up as he spoke and realized that it was Ceri who’d come to serve the ale. On meeting the tempting power of her silver-green eyes, he paused for an endless moment. They seemed to hold honesty and sweet compassion but too many questions had been raised and from too many sources to be simply dismissed.

  The next instant Taliesan was assailed by a guilt very rare to him. What if her apparent emotions were true and he was the fool for doubting her character?

  The suspicious mutterings of men seated on either side woke Taliesan from his momentary trance. He slowly turned a cautionary gaze of glittering black ice upon these observers openly daring his rarely roused but dangerous temper.

  Ceri’s breath had stopped as Tal’s eyes locked with hers but her cheeks warmed with bright color when his abruptly shifted attention broke that bond. She was grateful that his had been the last vessel to be filled, granting her the right to have quit of the great hall. Though wanting to madly flee, she tamed the impulse and gracefully walked from their company with proudly uplifted chin.

  * * *

  In a great hall considerably smaller than the one on Castle Westbourne’s second level Lloyd shared a simple trestle table with three other men. While his companions were preoccupied with their own petty quarrels, he silently reviewed the amazing recent events which had brought him here.

  Safe escape had been achieved not merely from the dungeon but, with Sir Ulrich’s unexpected aid, they’d moved through a secret postern gate in the outer bailey wall and out into the countryside beyond. Although Lloyd would rather have disappeared into the forests alone, he had spent the first day of his freedom with Simeon in an abandoned forest hovel. His liberator had deemed it unwise to risk known threats with a journey into Farleith until after the shield of another night’s darkness descended.

  “Surely you see that the time to act has come—and nearly gone?” As Simeon spoke to the stout leader across the table’s bare planks from himself, his never sweet voice fairly dripped with even more derisive acid than usual.

  “Soon,” Lord James said, lifting a pudgy hand and motioning his too tall and angular cohort to subside. “But not on the morrow.”

  “Then when?” These brusque words were the first spoken by Sir Ulrich since the four of them had settled in this chamber quickly emptied of others by the baron’s command.

  Simeon had led Ulrich to believe that they were gathered here to discuss strategies for achieving their common goal of seeing Westbourne conquered. But now it seemed irritatingly clear that Lord James meant to share nothing of these matters with anyone.

  While his three companions clashed in an odd, silent battle, Lloyd watched and listened intently. He’d been surprised to find Westbourne’s guard captain a part of his rescue. Never had he suspected this man was a traitor to Lord Taliesan. Yet it was true that without Ulrich’s help his escape would’ve failed. Unfortunately, for that boon these Normans would assuredly expect a great deal from him … and he no longer had any wish to cooperate. But that was a fact best kept to himself, at least for the moment.

  “When?” Lord James’s voice was layered in icy disgust. “When I am prepared to command that it be so. Until then, hold yourselves ready—but waste no more of my valuable time with questions whose answers only I need know.”

  Although to secure his goals Lord James must deal with the likes of these two halfwits, he was not so foolish as to trust them even so little as one step further than necessary.

  “Then why are we here?” Ulrich issued his demand from between clenched teeth. He had slipped away from Westbourne at no small danger to himself. Then he had joined his brother and the escaped prisoner for the journey to this site.

  “Why, indeed?” James sneered in disgust. “I didn’t summon you.”

  “You ordered the Welshman’s rescue.” The churlish Simeon argued with his leader. “And the success of that task could never have been accomplished without Ulrich’s aid.”

  Ulrich was stunned by what might almost seem praise from a brother who had never before wasted such effort on him. The next instant his bushy brows almost audibly crashed together in a stormy scowl. Simeon did nothing without purpose so what price this praise?

  “’Struth,” Lord James nodded, mirthless humor turning his lips more clearly down than upward. “And the actions of you both are noted with my sincere appreciation. However, you were not instructed to bring the former prisoner to me here.”

  “You would’ve had us abandon Lloyd only to be recaptured in Westbourne’s forests?” Simeon gasped. “What reason, then, for tempting fate with our dangerous rescue of him?”

  James’s laughter mocked Simeon’s questions. “Surely every Welshman is able to vanish in the greenwood without a Norman’s help.”

  Lloyd stifled a wry smile. It was true. Left alone in the woodland, he would never be found unless he wished it so.

  “No matter,” James continued, glaring at the errant brothers. “Lloyd is here and you may leave him with me—” A vicious smile appeared on the man’s thick lips. “But begone yourselves.”

  While watching the unpleasant siblings retreat, Lloyd realized that each of these three men distrusted the other two. He could understand why Lord James took no risks by sharing his plans with the brothers. But it was plain to Lloyd that the Norman baron intended to defeat Lord Taliesan on King Stephen’s behalf, thus earning his sovereign’s gratitude—and likely the conquered and lucrative borderlands for himself.

  Chapter 15

  Ceri stepped from the solar and quietly shut the door behind. The hour was late and the corridor dividing the castle’s highest level was only dimly lit by malodorous tallow candles set in metal rings intermittently driven like nails into wooden walls.

  A faint sound, now familiar, caught Ceri’s attention as she passed a door slightly ajar. But although the soft sound was the same, the location was different. The family chapel would remain unusable for so long as it was filled with the supplies of various village artisans who daily applied a fresh coat of color to panels depicting the life of Christ. Because Edith was barred from her preferred site for prayers, she’d apparently retreated to the at least temporary privacy of the shared bedchamber.

  After delivering this evening’s mulled wine to the solar where Lady Angwen quietly worked on the tapestry while Lady Blanche toiled on a smaller project of her own, she’d wondered why neither her aunt nor Lady Edith was present. Yet Ceri wasn’t surprised to discover the girl humbly on her knees with a head of nearly colorless hair bowed deeply over hands clasped palm to palm. She’d come to realize it was the position most natural for Edith. Yet Edith’s habitual failure to tightly close doors and ensure solitude was puzzling.

  “Lady Edith—” While gently calling, Ceri wondered if the constant and near public prayers of this young bride-to-be were a subconscious cry for help to avert an unwanted alliance?

  Face turning toward the open portal, Edith’s expression was initially that of a tender doe startled by the hunter but soon softened by recognition of her visitor.

  Ceri quietly pushed the door wider and stepped inside. “I’ve just come from delivering mulled wine to the solar, mayhap you…”

  Beneath Ceri’s tender gaze a single tear trailed down the girl’s cheek. Wanting to comfort what
ever had so deeply upset Edith, she moved toward the still kneeling figure and gently dried the damp streak with her forefinger. However, to Ceri’s own distress that consoling gesture brought not peace but a flood of silent tears.

  “What is it that troubles you?” Ceri asked again, compassion softening the hue of her eyes to a green mist. “I would do anything to ease your woe.”

  Edith was warmed by sincere concern again given by someone so recently a stranger after she had known very little of that honest emotion from any other, save her twin. Then, slowly shaking her head, Edith mournfully answered. “No one can change what must be done nor alter the path that I must follow.”

  Ceri quietly pursued what seemed the most likely source for Edith’s distress. “Do you regret your soon coming betrothal to Lord Taliesan?”

  “We will never be wed,” Edith flatly stated, guilt darkening her eyes.

  “You don’t intend to wed Lord Tal?” Despite having assumed that this girl wished to escape the proposed union, Ceri was disconcerted by her tone of finality and worried over the revelation’s timing. “The betrothal is only days away.”

  “I will wed Christ,” Edith responded with a strained smile. “Then, as is my destiny, I’ll retire to a nunnery and spend the length of my earthly days in prayerful worship.”

  “But what of Lord Tal?” Ceri’s anxiety for him paradoxically joined worry for the success of Edith’s dream to put a tremor in her voice. That she had no more desire to see the union sanctified than had Edith only made Ceri feel guilty for having pursued her own selfish quest.

  The question brought a fresh storm of tears from the young girl burying her face in shaking hands while gulping out, “He is the price that must be yielded for the right to claim my destiny.”

  Ceri realized infinitely more was involved here than merely the prospect of future betrothal oaths broken—a stain upon the one committing such a wrong, yet only that.