Aurelia’s dark hair and doelike brown eyes flickered into focus before him. She looked older, thinner, more tired from when he’d seen her last. Then, she had worn rouge and kohl, and tiny golden bells in her hair. Now, she was dim, wrapped in a shawl, her eyes shadowed naturally, and sunken.
“Roderick?” she asked, hope and surprise in her whisper. Over her shoulder Hugh Gilbert’s face also appeared, and elsewhere in the room the infant wailed insistently.
“’Ome,” Roderick heard himself rasp. “’El me, ’Eel-ya. Go…’ome.”
Roderick suddenly wanted to live.
Chapter One
May 1103
Tornfield Manor, England
It was a lovely feast, save for the pointing and whispering. And the way she was repeatedly jostled out of line when she tried to join in a dance. Or that wretched woman who had stuck out a slippered foot and caused her to fall into a serving maid, spilling half the puddings and breaking most of Lord Tornfield’s beautiful little painted bowls.
As if she needed assistance making a fool of herself.
So now, Michaela Fortune hid herself away near the musicians, where she could be close to the music that would drown out the hateful things being said about her. And, seated on the stool, she could hide the glommy white stains of pudding spilled down the skirt of her only good gown. Here, she could become lost in the melody and hum along if she wished, and she could convince herself it was truly a lovely feast, when what she wanted to do was find that miserable woman with the spastic foot and snatch at her hair.
Turn the other cheek, Michaela reminded herself, as if her mother had whispered in her ear. The meek shall inherit all the earth.
As if to drive home her mother’s tireless lessons on gentleness of spirit, Michaela caught a glimpse of her parents across the hall. Lord Walter and Agatha Fortune stood against the opposite perimeter of the chamber, closely linked together as usual. Michaela’s father’s kindly face was turned to look down upon his wife, as if only waiting for her to express any wish he might fulfill. It was satisfying to see them enjoying themselves—they so rarely left their small holding.
Like Michaela, Agatha Fortune was often the brunt of whispered gossip, although the mother was spared the indignity of the self-conscious clumsiness that plagued her daughter. The older Lady Fortune was dismissed as ineffective and a bit loose in the brains, while the younger was treated with scorn and avoidance.
Devil’s Daughter.
Hell’s Handmaid.
Sister of Satan.
Or, the very worst of all, Mistress Fortune.
Miss Fortune. A clever play on words, Michaela had to admit, and of all the hated nicknames she had been cursed with, likely the most accurate. Misfortune, oh my, yes.
Her fingers pressed the warped link of metal on the fine chain resting under the bodice of her dress out of habit. For such a tiny object, its burden around her neck was as immense as any oaken yoke.
“Song!” a man’s voice rang out, interrupting Michaela’s self-pity. Alan Tornfield, the Fortune family’s overlord and host of the feast, raised his chalice toward the trio of musicians near Michaela’s hiding place. He was a handsome, mustachioed blond man of one score, ten and five, his wife’s death last year leaving him and their young daughter alone in the modest manor. Michaela had never met the now-motherless Elizabeth—indeed, she’d never so much as spoken directly to Lord Tornfield. This feast was only the second time Michaela had visited the overlord’s home in the whole of her score of years, although she couldn’t recall the first instance, as she had been but a young child herself.
“I must have a song immediately! Who is sporting enough to lend their voice to yon strings?”
The crowd “hear-hear”-ed with enthusiastic agreement, and Michaela cringed as she spotted her own mother leaning this way and that, trying to pick out Michaela in the crowded hall. Michaela closed her eyes, as if it might make her invisible.
She was saved when Lord Tornfield announced his chosen candidate, and Michaela opened her eyes with a relieved sigh.
“Lady Juliette of Osprey, won’t you indulge us?” he fairly shouted, and in a moment a tall, striking brunette dressed in rich green stepped from the crowd, a humble smile on her lovely face.
It was the woman who’d tripped her. Michaela slid her stool more fully behind the curtained backdrop.
“Do you know ‘My Love Calls the Sea’?” Lady Juliette sweetly queried the trio, and the man out in front of the group bowed. In a moment, the song started.
When the woman’s voice came forth, sharp and warbling, Michaela cringed again. By the time the refrain and second verse were through, she checked to see if her nose might be bleeding. She saw several of the guests wince as notes were overshot toward heaven, Lady Juliette nearly screaming to reach such heights. Michaela opened her mouth and forced her ears to pop.
“Oh, make it stop,” she said loudly. No one could hear her any matter over that terrible shrieking. At any moment, she expected Lord Tornfield’s hounds to add their voices to the noise. It would have improved the tone immensely.
At last the torture was over, and Michaela could almost hear the relieved sigh of the guests before they broke out in ridiculously exaggerated applause for the obscenely wealthy Lady of Osprey.
“My God, they must be deaf,” Michaela muttered. Then she gasped as she felt a tug on the back of her hair. Michaela spun around on her stool.
Shadowed by the curtain Michaela also hid behind stood a beautiful girl, perhaps ten years old, with long, shiny blond hair pulled away from her forehead and cascading down her back. Big, wise brown eyes gave her the look of a gentle woodland doe, and her impish smile brightened her otherwise pale face. She was nodding enthusiastically.
“Oh, hello,” Michaela said.
The girl’s smile grew a bit wider. She pointed at the curtain, indicating the guests gathered beyond, then tugged at her ear.
Michaela couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, if they weren’t deaf before, I daresay they are now.”
The girl covered her mouth with both of her hands, and her eyes crinkled merrily.
“I am Michaela Fortune.” She held out her hand and the young girl immediately took it, sinking into a curtsey. “Who are you, pretty one?”
The girl smiled at the compliment then pointed at the crowd again. She drew her pointer fingers away from each other on her upper lip, then placed a hand on her flat chest.
Michaela thought she understood. “Lord Tornfield is your father?” The girl nodded, obviously happy that her pantomime had been successful. “Well, how do you do, Lady Elizabeth?”
The girl curtsied prettily again, and Michaela wondered at her lack of speech. She had heard of mutes, but never met one, and decided not to bring up the matter lest the fragile-looking child be humiliated.
Michaela knew all too well how that felt.
“Are you forbidden from the feast?” she asked instead.
Elizabeth shrugged, and then pointed past Michaela, her eyes wide and her mouth shaped into an O.
It appeared as though Lady Helltongue was preparing to torture the guests with another butchering of voice. Michaela groaned and dropped her head, her hands covering her ears.
“Can one wish oneself deaf, I wonder?”
Elizabeth Tornfield covered her own ears and bent at the waist, her mouth open in a silent guffaw and Michaela giggled. But she and her new young friend were spared from the lady’s imminent screeching by Alan Tornfield himself.
“A moment, if you please,” he interrupted with a handsome bow in Lady Osprey’s direction. “I have an announcement before the festivities continue.” Alan stepped onto the dais that held the lord’s table with only a slight wobble and then smiled broadly at the crowd.
“I feel I must take this opportunity to address the sad news of our liege, Lord Magnus Cherbon’s, passing, more than a year ago.” Not even a murmur of sympathy answered the announcement, and Michaela was not surprised. It was no secret tha
t all within the demesne had detested the Cherbon Devil and his greedy, merciless rule, and most had looked upon his death as a blessing. Elizabeth inched closer to Michaela’s side and peeked around the curtain at her father as he continued his speech.
“Our lands have been without a master for too long a time, and so it is with a happy heart that I follow such sadness with a bit of a miracle: Lord Cherbon’s son, my cousin, Roderick, is expected to return from the Holy Land any day, to take his father’s place at Cherbon Castle.”
At this, excited murmurs raced through the hall. Michaela caught only snippets of exclamations.
“Roderick, Lord Roderick!”
“So handsome…”
“…not at all like his sire.”
“However,” Lord Alan said crossly over the animated whispering, “due to some rather…devastating injuries he suffered while on his pilgrimage, and dare I say, lameness of body”—the crowd gasped—“as well as terms of the inheritance set forth by Magnus himself, it is possible that the bequeathement of the demesne could fall”—Alan paused, and the crowd seemed to lean forward eagerly—“to none other than yours truly.”
The hall erupted in surprised shouts and applause, and Lord Tornfield’s smile was not a little prideful. He let the praise go on for several more seconds before raising his hands for silence once more.
“While I am, of course, saddened by the losses my cousin has suffered, I feel that tonight is a cause for celebration and merry-making. After all, it could only be a matter of weeks before I am removed to the northern part of our lands.” The crowd responded with a collective moan. “So! Let us make the most of our time together with a bit of sport—a competition, if you will, of song. I shall grant a boon to the most accomplished singer.” The crowd cheered. “We have already gratefully received Lady Juliette’s offering.”
Lady Juliette smiled widely about the guests and gave a saucy wink.
“Who dares challenge her?” Lord Alan looked over those gathered. “Oh, come on. Who will give it a go?”
For the better part of an hour, more than a score of guests, male and female, took their turn in the fun of the challenge. None were truly accomplished in their talent—a few even deliberately mocking themselves by singing bawdy limericks or reciting silly lines of verse—but none were nearly as bad as Lady Juliette, Michaela was relieved to hear. She and little Lady Elizabeth enjoyed each performance, hidden away behind the curtain, dancing each other in a circle with joined hands.
The most recent contestant, a young man of good family, took his bow amidst roaring laughter and applause and Lord Tornfield claimed the dais once more as Michaela fell back onto her stool panting and giggling.
“Oh, well done, well done!” he laughed, and raised his ever-present chalice in salute of the young man. “Who else? Who will be next? We can’t let the fun end now!”
Michaela felt a tug on her hair again and turned to see Elizabeth pantomiming a palm away from her open mouth. Then she pointed at Michaela.
“Oh, no. I think not.”
Elizabeth gave a mock pout then clasped her hands before her chest in a plea.
“Before all these people? They would devour me whole, Elizabeth. I haven’t the talent for—”
“Lady Michaela Fortune shall sing!”
Michaela’s stomach dropped into her bottom as her mother’s warbly voice rang out through the hall.
“My daughter, where is she? Michaela?” Agatha’s calls sounded ever closer, and Michaela could already hear the snickers and whispers from the crowd. “Michaela?”
Elizabeth gave her an unexpected—and surprisingly forceful—shove, and Michaela sprang from behind the curtain, stumbling, stumbling, catching herself with one outstretched hand, nearly standing, before at last sprawling facedown on the flagstones.
“Oh, Michaela, there you are, dear,” Agatha said in delight.
The guests made no effort to quell their laughter.
Then Agatha was at her side, pulling her daughter up by the arm. “Here we are, do get up, dear—and what has happened to your gown? No matter. Go on then, you have such a lovely voice.” Then she leaned in close to Michaela’s ear to whisper, “Think of the boon, Michaela! Mayhap a bit off the taxes….”
“Oh, yes, Pudding—give us a song!” someone from the crowd goaded.
Michaela was very aware of her soiled dress, of Lady Juliette smirking in her direction, and of her mother’s reminder of the Fortunes’ growing poverty. Mayhap Lord Tornfield would grant a small reprieve, but…
Meanwhile, the crowd egged each other on.
“I dunno if we should have a verse from Miss Fortune—the devil might strike us all deaf!”
Michaela flung her hair out of her eyes and spun on the heckler. “I vow that if you can still claim even a bit of your hearing after that monstrosity of sound”—she said, and glanced at the shocked Juliette—“your tender ears should be quite safe for the rest of your life, devil or nay.”
“Michaela!” Agatha gasped and patted her daughter’s arm. “That was unkind.”
Lady Juliette had regained her composure and now stepped from the crush with a malicious look. “Verily, Miss Fortune? ‘Monstrosity of sound,’ was it? Well, then, if the crowd judges your voice more worthy than mine, I shall grant you my own boon. Anything you wish.”
Michaela raised her eyebrows. “Anything I wish?”
Lady Juliette looked to Alan Tornfield. “Do you consent to this wager, my lord?”
The lord was looking at Michaela as if he’d never seen her before, which was unlikely since she’d made such a scene of slippery pudding and broken pottery.
“By all means, ladies,” he said in an amused voice. “Please, proceed.”
For a moment, Michaela was frozen in the quiet, expectant hall, the guests regarding her blatantly. All eyes were pinned to her, the center of attention—a situation that never, ever turned out to Miss Fortune’s advantage.
Someone coughed. Agatha Fortune smiled encouragingly at her daughter.
“Will you name a tune, m’lady?” the leader of the trio asked politely, if pointedly.
Michaela looked back at Juliette and saw the woman’s smirk, as if she could sense how close Michaela was to forfeiting.
Think of the boon, Michaela! Mayhap a bit off the taxes….
“We’re waiting, Miss Fortune,” Juliette taunted.
Michaela took a deep breath. “No music,” she said to the lute player.
“Oh-ho!” Juliette laughed and clapped her hands.
“There was none written for this piece.”
Juliette abruptly closed her mouth.
Michaela took a deep, deep breath as her mother stepped away, leaving Michaela in a circle of expectant guests. Alone.
Then she opened her mouth and sang as best as she could, her eyes closed, moving herself out of the smoky, humid hall of Tornfield Manor and imagining herself flying through the clouds, her arms outstretched like wings.
The tune had been taught to her as a young girl by the friar who traveled through the Cherbon demesne, originally written as a chant for monks. But Michaela turned it into a high song of sweet mourning, pouring all of her wishes and dreams atop the hurt and humiliation she’d been dealt—not only that night of the feast, but throughout her entire life—and creating a confection of song so pure and personal that she could feel her own tears press against her closed eyelids.
It was a longish piece, but she did not shorten it, relishing these few moments when, locked away in her own mind, she could give free rein to the one thing she did even passably well. The hall was wide and deep and tall-ceilinged, and each note ricocheted off the stones as she sang them, circling around and meeting each other to make a chorus of voices, it seemed.
As the last drawn-out word hung and then faded, Michaela reluctantly brought herself down from her fanciful flight and opened her eyes.
Everyone in the hall was staring at her as if the song had caused her to grow an additional head. Even t
he servants had stopped, frozen in their tasks of clearing the long tables and ferrying trays, and the silence following Michaela’s song was perfect. Not even a breath stirred the air.
She felt her face start to heat and turned quickly to focus her attention on Lord Tornfield. He, too, was staring at her as if she were some strange creature who had slinked into his home, his mouth agape, and he didn’t seem to notice that the chalice in his hand was loosing a stream of wine onto the toe of his boot.
Michaela said nothing, only waited for her judgment in the contest, feeling naked, vulnerable. As if she’d bared her very soul before all gathered.
Still, no one made any sound or movement as slight as a sniffle or the shuffling of a foot. Michaela felt her throat closing.
Then, suddenly, the sound of two hands clapping vigorously cracked the awkward stillness, and Michaela turned her head to seek the applauder.
Elizabeth Tornfield had stepped from behind the musicians’ curtain and was clapping as if attempting to break off both her arms. Her smile was the warmest Michaela had ever received from someone not of her relation, and the sight of this little girl, bravely risking reprimand at showing herself at the feast in order to praise her new friend, caused Michaela’s heart to expand.
At least someone had liked her song.
His daughter’s appearance obviously affected Lord Tornfield, as well, for he shook himself after a quiet gasp, dropped his now-empty chalice to the floor with a clang, and joined in his daughter’s enthusiastic applause.
“Well done!” he shouted. “Oh, yes, well done, indeed!”
The rest of the hall added their own lukewarm praise immediately, and Michaela looked around at the guests, whispering to their neighbors while clapping and regarding Michaela from the corners of their eyes.
And then Lord Tornfield was off across the hall, still clapping, until he dropped to his knees before his daughter and embraced her, speaking in a low voice that was drowned out by the dwindling applause. In a moment he rose and led Elizabeth back to his place on the dais, helping her up the step as if she were an invalid. The murmurs of the crowd increased, and Michaela had the distinct impression that she was no longer the topic of gossip. She tried to squelch the traitorous relief she felt.
Taming The Beast Page 2