by Shari Anton
She jumped up. “But that does not give Roland enough time to return with Brother Walter!”
“I know. I asked Lancaster to request a delay. He agreed to do so, but given the king’s present mood, he is not hopeful. Kenworth pressures the king for action, and Lancaster does not know how long Edward can resist without appearing weak-willed.”
“Not long,” her father commented. “Edward’s father tended to put off decisions until events made the decision for him, and betimes the results were disastrous. ’Tis not a reputation the son wishes to court. You told Lancaster where Roland went and why?”
“I did. Given what I know of Roland’s audience with Edward, I thought the king might be willing to give Roland a chance to return.”
“Or he may not.” Father again turned to the window, his head bowed. “ ’Tis as I feared, that all will depend upon whether Edward believes me or the earl of Kenworth. I caution you not to place any wagers on my success.”
Roland paced Abbot Clement’s sitting room, careful not to bump into any of the excessively ornate furniture. He felt too big for the room, too heavy for the chairs, more ill at ease than he wanted to admit even to himself.
Since arriving at Evesham and requesting to see Brother Walter, Roland had been passed from monk to monk until he’d finally ended up in the abbot’s office. Something wasn’t right. Such a simple thing as a visit to a monk shouldn’t require the consent or presence of the abbey’s ruler.
Still, Abbot Clement had sent an assistant to fetch Brother Walter, so perhaps nothing horrible was amiss. Roland smiled to himself, realizing he’d caught Eloise’s optimism. The lady had affected him in more ways than he’d thought.
“Patience, my son. ’Twill take some time to locate Brother Walter. May I offer you wine or ale?”
Time. Every moment counted. The abbot didn’t know that, however, because Roland hadn’t said why he needed to speak with Brother Walter, only that the reason was of great import.
“I appreciate your hospitality, my lord abbot.”
Abbot Clement poured a generous amount of wine into a costly gold goblet of simple design. A portly man of seeming good humor, the abbot waved a hand beset by three heavy rings toward a heavy, brocade-cushioned chair.
“Rest yourself, Sir Roland. Tell me of news from London.”
Short of being horribly rude to a man of the Church, Roland saw no way out. So he dredged up tidbits of gossip to relate, hoping each bit would be the last before Brother Walter came through the door.
He refrained from mentioning the charges against Sir John. Not until he’d left London did Roland wonder how widespread the news, or how much influence Kenworth might have over Evesham Abbey and its abbot. Best to withhold comment in front of people he wasn’t sure he could trust and keep his reasons for seeking out the monk between himself and Brother Walter.
The wine went down smoothly, and with every sip Roland counted the moments wasted. They needed to get on the road and set a quick pace. For Sir John’s sake. For his own.
He missed Eloise damn near more than he could bear.
Was it only two mornings ago he’d slipped out of her arms to make this dash to Evesham? Seemed like a lifetime ago.
All the way to the abbey he’d thought of her, wondering what she was doing and where she might be. Her brother would keep her safe, Roland knew. Geoffrey would guard her or ensure her safety if he couldn’t be with her. But until he saw Eloise again, Roland knew he wouldn’t rest easy.
Sweet mercy, but she’d brought him low. He risked much—all for the love of a woman. A chivalrous notion that had no place in real life. One might yearn for a woman from afar, write poetry to a lady’s beauty, or vow to perform some brave deed in her name. However, no sensible knight put his good name in jeopardy or risked his future in royal service in the name of love.
Yet he did. By aiding her father. By marrying Eloise.
Sir John might yet be convicted of treason. The king might not be pleased by the marriage to Eloise. However, no power on heaven or earth could have stopped Roland from marrying her once she gave her consent.
He drained his goblet.
She seemed content with the marriage, but Eloise was a proud, strong woman. How long would it be until she fully realized how far beneath her she’d married, perhaps come to resent what she may have given up? Would she still be content if her husband failed to give her back her father?
Why did his normal self-confidence in his strengths and abilities falter when it came to Eloise?
Because he loved her. Because he loathed the idea of losing the contentment and joy he found in her arms. For the first time in his life he’d surrendered to the urging of his heart despite the warnings in his head. Brought low, indeed.
Roland rose as the door opened. The abbot’s assistant returned—without Brother Walter.
The monk bowed to his prelate. “Brother Walter begs your indulgence and asks to be excused from this audience. He expresses his desire to not speak with Sir Roland.”
Roland almost tossed the goblet across the room. He’d not expected this.
“Did he give a reason why?” the abbot asked.
“Nay, my lord abbot, he did not.”
The abbot tossed a questioning glance Roland’s way.
Roland could think of several reasons why the monk might wish to hide, none of them for the abbot’s ears. Remembering dragging the monk out of the stable at Lelle-ford, the embarrassing bath in the bailey, then giving him over to Kenworth, Roland strove for a balance between truth and evasion.
“I understand his reluctance. I fear our last meeting was less than friendly, but I hoped he had found it in his heart to forgive me. I assure you, my lord abbot, Brother Walter has nothing to fear from me.”
Not much to fear, anyway. Not if the man came out of hiding and got on the horse.
The assistant shook his head. “Brother Walter was most adamant. He told me to wish Sir Roland Godspeed.”
With neither the time nor patience to placate or negotiate, Roland placed his hands flat on the abbot’s dark, highly polished desk and leaned forward.
“With due respect for Brother Walter’s reluctance, I must speak with him. Whether the good monk here brings Walter to me, or takes me to him, I care not. I will not, however, leave without at least a word with him.”
Roland guessed a man didn’t rise to the position of abbot without possessing some power of his own. The abbot glowered.
“I will not force one of my monks to an audience where he feels threatened. On what business do you come?”
“The king’s business.” Not quite a lie, and very effective, eliciting raised eyebrows and an impressive gasp from the assistant.
Not so the abbot.
“The king, you say. What does Edward want with our brother?”
Roland backed up. “I am allowed to inform Brother Walter. If he wishes to tell you, he may. However, please know that a man’s life may depend on information the monk possesses. Would you have a man die because Brother Walter is hesitant?”
The abbot didn’t take long to think it over. “We will take you to Brother Walter, but I insist on being present when you speak with him.”
“Only if he agrees.”
“Fair enough.”
Roland strode beside the abbot through the passageways. Never having been in a monastery before, he was impressed by how much the place resembled a castle. Thick stone walls. A large hall with trestle tables set up along the length. People bustled about to perform their given tasks, the slap of sandals replacing the clunk of boots.
Except all the people were men, and all were respectfully quiet. Not an ominous hush, but close. ’Twas hard to imagine a man as big and vital as Geoffrey in a setting such as this, and not at all hard to imagine how a man of Brother Walter’s skittish nature might find solace.
The monk leading them slowed as they neared an archway.
“In the garden?” the abbot asked.
“Aye, my lord abbot.
On the far bench.”
The abbot waved off the monk and strode through the archway into a space open to the sky in the middle of the abbey. In the far corner, one brown-robed monk huddled in a small alcove.
Roland felt his heartbeat quicken as he recognized his quarry. Fearing Brother Walter might bolt if approached too quickly, he once more matched his stride to the abbot’s, being careful to stay half a step behind.
As they neared him, the monk’s head slowly rose, his eyes going wide with stark fear. The abbot put up his hands, palms forward, and quickened his pace. Roland stopped in his tracks.
“Peace, my son. We mean you no harm,” the abbot said.
The monk didn’t believe it, but neither did he move, except for the visible flinch when the abbot’s hand landed on his shoulder.
While the abbot whispered assurances, Roland realized something dreadful must have happened to Brother Walter after he’d left Lelleford. The man had been skit-tish, but not like a rabbit within talon’s reach of a hawk.
Kenworth’s doing? Roland remembered thinking the monk might suffer consequences for alerting Sir John to Kenworth’s arrival. Kenworth hadn’t done away with his spy, but had assuredly inflicted punishment.
After much cajoling by the abbot, Brother Walter finally rose from the bench and tucked his hands up his wide sleeves. He wasn’t shaking, but Roland sensed continuing fear.
Although impatient, Roland waited for the abbot’s slight hand motion before approaching.
“Brother Walter,” Roland said gently. “I have given Abbot Clement my word that I will do you no harm. As a knight, as a man who prides himself on his honor, I give you the same oath now. You have naught to fear from me.”
“You serve … Kenworth.”
Roland didn’t know how much influence Kenworth held over the abbey or its abbot, if any, but decided he must take a slight risk.
“I am in the king’s service, not Kenworth’s. I come to you at the behest of another, who very much needs your help. May I beg your indulgence for a private word?”
The abbot patted the monk’s shoulder. “I will not be far, only on yon bench.”
Brother Walter swallowed hard, then gave a slight nod. The abbot took himself off to a bench not far away, but far enough.
Hoping to appear less threatening, Roland clasped his hands behind his back. He had no time to question the monk and coax out what he knew of the case. But he could be gentle in his directness.
“I fear Kenworth is on the verge of making good his case against Sir John, who resides in the Tower of London awaiting his hearing. Brother Walter, Sir John cannot disprove the charges against him without your help. Will you come?”
“Nay, I cannot leave,” Walter said, his voice thin. “I cannot.”
Roland strove to remain calm in the face of the man’s quietly stated panic.
“Lady Eloise believes you wanted to tell her father something vital on the morning Sir John left Lelleford to avoid Kenworth. Is she correct?”
The monk’s head bobbed. “How does … her lady-ship?”
’Twas Roland’s turn to take a steadying breath. “She is in London, doing all she can to bolster her father’s spirits.” And then he knew how to begin to gain the monk’s confidence. “We are now married, Lady Eloise and I.”
The fear receded slightly. “You are Sir John’s son-by-marriage?”
“I am, and as such, wish to help him any way I am able. Is my wife correct in believing you wished to tell her father about the missive in the king’s possession?”
The monk closed his eyes, but remained mum.
“Brother Walter, Sir John may hang if you do not finish your confession.”
A visible shiver ran through the man’s body, his closed eyes tightening. For a moment, Roland thought the monk would bolt. Then he calmed and opened his eyes. The flash of something akin to defiance lit his features.
“Sir John is a good man,” he said, his voice stronger.
“I believe so. How good is a judgment of God. In any event, he is not guilty of treason.”
“Nay, he is not.”
At last, Roland began to feel hope. “Will you come?”
“Kenworth will … will … ”
Roland waited for the monk to finish, but he never did, the words seemingly stuck in his throat. Having never been this fearful of a man, Roland struggled to understand the terror.
“Kenworth will not harm you. Either I or Sir John’s son, Geoffrey, will be your guards. ’Tis quite possible you may never see Kenworth at all.”
Brother Walter glanced toward where the abbot sat on the bench. Looking for guidance?
Moments slid away, time growing short.
Roland held out his right hand. “I give you my oath, whether by guile or by sword, I shall do all I am able to keep you safe from Kenworth.”
Brother Walter stared at the extended hand, then slowly slid his own from beneath his robe’s generous sleeve.
Maimed. Twisted fingers. Shattered thumb. Knuckles huge and prominent.
Roland finally understood the monk’s fear and managed to remain steady as the damaged hand slid into his. Roland gripped the monk’s hand as firmly as he dared, and soon felt an answering squeeze, not hard, but with definite pressure.
“I will come,” the monk said.
Relief washed over him, and his thoughts turned to the journey ahead. While Roland hated to refer to the man’s deformity, the question had to be asked.
“Can you ride a horse?”
“Aye. I will fetch my cloak.”
The monk sped through the garden, passed under the arch.
The abbot’s hand landed on Roland’s shoulder. “You did well, son. I have not seen such spirit in Brother Walter’s step since he returned to us.”
“What happened to his hand?”
“Brother Walter told me he fell and a wagon wheel ran over it.”
Roland didn’t doubt the damage caused by a wagon wheel, but had to wonder how the monk’s hand came to be in the wheel’s path. True, the man was clumsy, but Roland doubted the injury was a horrible happenstance.
“ ’Twould have been best for Brother Walter had he never left the abbey.”
The abbot gave a shrug. “Perhaps. I never thought to question when he volunteered to fulfill Sir John Hamelin’s request for a clerk. I should have, I suppose.”
“Why is that?”
“Brother Walter is the earl of Kenworth’s bastard son. I am entrusting you to keep my monk safe. Do not disappoint me, Sir Roland.”
Bastard son?
Roland reeled. Even as he struggled to absorb the news, his understanding of the monk’s previous actions and his current fright rose.
Brother Walter had served as spy to please his father. The monk’s conscience must have bothered him to the degree that he informed Sir John, who he’d come to like and respect. As punishment for his betrayal, Kenworth allowed Walter to live, but only with the reminder of where his loyalty had fallen short.
And now Roland asked him to fully betray his father.
Ye gods. Could the monk find the strength to go through what was required of him? And if he did, could Roland truly protect Brother Walter against Kenworth’s wrath?
Chapter Twenty
GARBED IN her crimson gown, hands clasped in her lap, Eloise perched on the edge of a brocade-cushioned chair at the far edge of the king’s sumptuous chamber.
On one side of the king’s desk stood William, earl of Kenworth, and on the other Geoffrey and their father. Seated in a thronelike chair, King Edward leaned forward on his desk, arms crossed, all four missives spread out before him.
Lancaster wouldn’t attend. Fearing the audience might decline into a power struggle between the king and the two earls and confident he could present their father’s case convincingly, Geoffrey had requested Lancaster refrain from appearing.
Roland wasn’t here either, and his continued absence tightened the knot in her stomach.
He should have
been back yesterday afternoon, and with each passing hour Eloise fretted less over whether he’d found Brother Walter and more over his safety.
’Struth, she wanted Roland to arrive with the monk in tow, but right now she’d settle for word that no mishap had befallen him. She kept glancing at the doorway even as she strove to heed the arguments being presented in respectful, almost too civilized fashion, to King Edward.
The king listened without comment, showing nothing of his thoughts, as Kenworth exchanged opposing views with Geoffrey over the believability of the missives and the quality of her father’s character.
While she found Edward’s lack of reaction irritating, Eloise was struck favorably by his poise and commanding presence. Perhaps she was swayed by her father’s tales of the king’s prowess, or perhaps she felt the magnetism of his power and position. Either way, if asked, she’d willingly take an oath of fealty to the young king.
Kenworth tossed a hand in the air. “My liege, the missives speak for themselves. The question is not if John Hamelin conspired with the Scottish chief, but for how long.”
“Never,” her father said quietly, the first time he’d spoken.
Kenworth wagged a finger at him. “You are well and truly caught, Hamelin. To deny the deed only brings you further dishonor.”
“Never,” Father repeated more strongly. “ ’Twas your spy who sneaked those missives into my accounting room. One must wonder where he obtained them. From you, Kenworth?”
Geoffrey winced, and Eloise tightened her clasped hands. Father and Geoffrey had agreed not to mention their suspicions about the exact nature of Brother Walter’s role. Partly because most of their beliefs were speculation, but mostly because they couldn’t prove anything without the monk’s cooperation.
“Preposterous!” Kenworth’s voice thundered through the spacious chamber.
The king ignored the outburst and merely arched an eyebrow at her father. “What spy?”
“A monk I took into my service as my clerk. On the morning Kenworth was to arrive, Brother Walter confessed to secreting the missives into Lelleford and forewarned me of Kenworth’s arrival to arrest me for treason.”