Perhaps it will be an easy arrangement, being married to Geoffrey. By the standards of nobility, it was an excellent match from her position. Her parents would have been pleased.
More significant, her brother’s future was now secure. Elizabeth believed that Geoffrey would indeed protect little Thomas. “We are no longer alone, little brother,” she whispered. Hope, newfound and fragile, eased Elizabeth’s worry.
Kicking off the covers, she slipped out of bed and knelt down, automatically making the sign of the cross before her knees touched the cold stone floor. In the habit of rushing through her morning prayers, all recited aloud in Latin as her mother had taught her, Elizabeth finished the ritual in bare minutes. She added an additional Paternoster for the repose of her family’s souls, and ended the prayer with the same vow she had made each and every morning since the massacre. She promised to see Belwain punished, and would give her life, if need be. The fact that she was praying for vengeance, an act in great contradiction to all the Church taught, did not deter Elizabeth. In this instance she would follow her grandfather’s beliefs. It would be an eye for an eye. The oldest law would prevail.
The ritual completed, Elizabeth hurried to dress. She wished to look her best when she joined her husband. Never having given her appearance more than a necessary glance in the past, Elizabeth was a little surprised at herself. Being pledged to Hugh for so many years removed the need for primping for the opposite sex, for Hugh had always been far more interested in the number of new horses purchased and by how many coins whenever he visited Montwright Manor. He never remarked upon her appearance. Father had called Hugh frugal, which by her father’s tight standards was quite a compliment. Elizabeth had come to think of her future husband as . . . predictable. Predictable and boring.
Her wardrobe was sadly lacking in choices. Long ago, her father had dictated that too many clothes made one give undue attention to one’s appearance, and such attention more than hinted of vanity. And vanity was a sin.
Elizabeth decided on a beige gown with blue borders. It fit rather snugly across her breasts and was high-necked, with long flowing sleeves. She tied a blue rope around her waist and slipped her dagger into its leather sheath and onto the loop of the belt.
It took her another ten minutes to find the mate to her beige leather shoes, lodged behind the drape at the head of the bed, and when both shoes were found and slipped into, she turned her attention to her hair. She brushed it until it crackled and then tied it with a ribbon at the base of her neck.
There, she was done. Pinching her cheeks to give them additional glow, and wishing she could find her tiny mirror to check her appearance, she straightened her shoulders and went in search of her husband.
She found Sara in the great hall, and saw the disorder. The castle must be made as spotless as it used to be, Elizabeth decided, in honor of her mother. Elizabeth deterred her search for Geoffrey and organized the servants, placing Sara in charge to supervise the sweeping and scrubbing.
“Throw out these reeds,” she said, referring to the soiled rushes. “And replace them with new. Perhaps we should sprinkle some rosemary about to get rid of the staleness that lingers. What say you, Sara?” Elizabeth asked the servant.
“Aye, my lady. And Dame Winslow will bring us fresh wildflowers just like she used to do for your mother. We will have the place as right as new in no time.”
Elizabeth nodded. Her gaze turned to the shredded banner hanging by sheer willpower of its own on the far wall. “Sara, have someone remove the banner,” she ordered in a whisper. “I do not need to look upon it to remember what was done here. I’ll not forget.”
The servant impulsively grabbed Elizabeth’s hand and squeezed it. “I’ll see to it, my lady. None of us will be forgetting.”
“Thank you, Sara,” Elizabeth replied. She gave the banner one last look and then turned to leave the room.
The servant used the hem of her sleeve to wipe the gathering tears from her eyes as she watched her new mistress. Oh, if only she had the power to lift some of the weight and heartache burdening one so young! “ ’Tis so unfair,” she grumbled to herself.
“Pardon me, Sara?” Elizabeth turned from the doorway and smiled. “I did not hear you.”
“I was just asking myself if you and the Baron will be leaving soon,” Sara improvised. She knew it wasn’t her place to ask such a question, but she had no wish to talk of the killings again.
Elizabeth was surprised by the question. She had not even considered the possibility of leaving Montwright. It was her home. Yet leaving, and soon, was more than likely. Geoffrey had many holdings superior to Montwright lands and he had his own domain. “In truth, I do not know,” Elizabeth told the servant. “Where is my husband, Sara? Have you seen him about? I must discuss this issue with him.”
“I have not seen him this morn,” Sara replied. “Perhaps he is in the courtyard, or in the soldiers’ keep below. I could send Hammond to check,” she added, for while Elizabeth could freely roam about the estate, it was strictly forbidden for a woman to enter the soldiers’ quarters located one flight below the great hall.
“I will find him,” Elizabeth said.
It was easier said than done. Elizabeth strolled around the courtyard but did not interrupt any of the men to ask of her husband’s whereabouts. She stopped and watched several knights struggle with a large vat of sand, wondering what their plan was. The redheaded squire, called Gerald, was glad to give her an explanation. “Vats of sand will be placed at intervals along the ledge circling the top of the wall, my lady.”
“For what purpose?” Elizabeth asked, frowning.
“See the one that is in place already, over there?” Gerald asked, pointing to the west. His voice fairly screamed the question into Elizabeth’s ear.
“Aye, I see it,” Elizabeth answered.
“And see how it perches on those stones?” Elizabeth nodded, inwardly smiling at the squire’s loud enthusiasm.
“The fire to heat the sand will be contained within the circle of stones.”
“But for what purpose?” Elizabeth asked.
“To heat the sand,” Gerald restated, “until the sand is so hot it is almost liquid sun.”
“And when it is almost liquid sun?” Elizabeth asked.
“Then it is propelled by the metal discs over the wall and will do much damage to anyone trying to gain entrance . . . if there be another attack.”
From the look on the squire’s face, he was a bit disappointed that she wasn’t showing much enthusiasm. “I had not heard of such a thing, such a weapon,” she said. “It is truly effective?”
“Aye, my lady. The sand can burn the body something fierce. Why, if it lands right, it can blind—”
“Enough,” Elizabeth hastened to interrupt, for he was painting a gruesome picture for her and she had the feeling he was just beginning to warm to his topic. “You have convinced me,” she added.
The squire nodded and grinned. Elizabeth thanked him for his time and explanation, and thought that he reminded her of her pet hawk the way he puffed up with her praise.
She continued to look for her husband but did not find him in any of the small huts clustered in semicircles around the courtyard. She was pleased to see that all the huts were being reinforced with fresh-smelling straw and wattle, long thin wooden rods that gave additional support. The huts were the real foundation of the castle, and though they were built on a small scale by others’ standards, they housed trained craftsmen who were highly skilled and most efficient in seeing to all the needs of the manor. The leatherworker resided in one hut; the baker with two cooking pits and one clay oven in another; the falcons and their trainer with his variety of cages and perches in yet another. In another cluster the carpenter resided, next to the candlemaker. The last and, by her father’s standards, the most important was the oversized hut set to one side of the castle, all alone, and nearest to the barn. It contained the toolsmith and his supply of iron and steel. The weapons were mad
e there.
In the bailey beyond the walls, the slaughter of the animals was seen to and the making of honey fermented ale watched over. There had been plans to add a winepress, but that reality had not come to pass before her father’s death.
Elizabeth wondered when the craftsmen had last been paid. Was that now her responsibility? She considered. In the past her father had paid the freemen in coin and food. Deductions were taken from their pay for protection and a place to live, and for the number of candles used and recorded by Dame Winslow. The candlemaker’s wife could not write, but her method of keeping track was just as efficient. She used small pebbles. Each time a candle was handed out, Dame Winslow placed a pebble in that freeman’s cup. When payday arrived, the cups were placed before Elizabeth’s father and it was he who would calculate amounts. Who would see to this duty now? she asked herself. Another question to put to her husband, Elizabeth realized. But Geoffrey was nowhere to be found. Elizabeth went into the barn and found her mare in one of the stalls and made a mental note to thank Joseph for bringing her animal back for her. She saw that Geoffrey’s huge stallion was gone. A knot of fear grabbed at her when she realized he had ridden into the forest, for there was danger out there, and then the absurdity of her reaction made her laugh. Had she not survived with but her dogs on the outside for weeks? And was not her husband capable of taking care of himself?
The thought that perhaps Geoffrey was touring the outer bailey, seeing what damage was done to the peasants’ huts residing at the base of the winding road below Montwright, made Elizabeth head in that direction. She reached the gates to the outside but found her way blocked by two guards.
“Please open the gates,” Elizabeth asked.
“We cannot, my lady,” one of the men said.
“You cannot?” Elizabeth frowned and looked from one soldier to another.
“Our orders,” the second explained. “From the Hawk.”
“What order did my husband issue?” Elizabeth asked. She kept her tone pleasant and neutral.
“That you remain inside the walls,” one of the guards answered in a hesitant voice. He did not like the frown that came upon his mistress’s face and hoped that she wouldn’t press him. He had no wish to upset her, though he would obey the Hawk’s orders no matter what.
“So I am . . .” Elizabeth started to comment that she was a prisoner in her own home and caught herself in time. She would discuss this with her husband. It would be unseemly for her to make any comment, good or bad, to his guards. They were doing their duty for their lord. “Then you must follow your orders,” she said, smiling.
Turning, she started back, wondering why such an order had been given. Did it apply to everyone or just her? Was her husband worried that she might try to leave? Return to the forest? Elizabeth could understand his unsureness of her up until yesterday evening. But last night she had given him her pledge. She had admitted that she belonged to him. She was his wife. Didn’t he realize that her pledge was the same as a sacred vow to her? Shaking her head, Elizabeth decided not. Trust. It must be earned. And in time, she was sure she would gain his trust, his confidence.
And how sure of him am I? Elizabeth asked herself. Do I trust him? She thought that she did, knew that he was an honest man. He had dealt well with her father, she remembered. And her father had called him a fair man. High praise from one who was as frugal with his praise as he was with his coins.
Elizabeth admitted that her knowledge of her husband was quite limited. She knew nothing of how he dealt with women, how he would treat a wife.
A blur in the sky caught her attention. Elizabeth glanced up and saw her hawk circling, and without so much as a second thought for her audience, she extended her arm and waited. She was so intent on watching her pet descend that she didn’t notice the hush that came over the group, or see the startled, disbelieving expressions.
The hawk landed on Elizabeth’s arm and met her stare with a loud gargle of greeting. Elizabeth noticed that her pet was full-breasted from a recent meal and whispered words of praise for his hunting ability.
The hawk increased his gargling and then suddenly began to flap his wings with distress. “I hear him too,” Elizabeth whispered, for the sound of approaching horse and rider was growing closer. Her voice soothed the hawk and the flapping ceased. Elizabeth looked up and saw her husband, sitting on his horse, watching her. Her dogs flanked the stallion’s sides, their breathing labored from their run. Knowing how nervous the hawk became whenever the dogs were about, Elizabeth took mercy on her pet and commanded, “Go.” The hawk immediately left its soft perch and took to the air.
Elizabeth lifted the hem of her gown and started toward her husband, intent on asking him to spare her a few minutes. She focused on the hard line of his mouth, remembering his lovemaking, and wondered what he was thinking. She could feel the soldiers staring at her and realized from their gaping expressions that she had made a spectacle of herself with her pet hawk. She felt embarrassed that she had drawn so much attention. Keeping her eyes firmly on her husband’s features, she continued her slow, dignified pace.
The cheer caught her by surprise. Startled, she turned to see what the commotion was all about. They were still staring at her. And they were yelling. Had they all gone daft? She looked back to her husband for an answer, but his face was a mask as he watched her.
It was Roger who gave her an explanation. He came up behind her and placed his hand on her shoulder, saw her husband’s scowl, and quickly removed it. “They honor the Hawk . . . your husband,” he said, “and cheer the Hawk’s mistress. You are worthy, my lady.”
“But they do not realize. The hawk is my pet,” she said, looking to the sky. “I have raised it from—”
“It does not matter,” Roger interrupted, smiling. “The hawk has his freedom and still he returns. It is because you are worthy.”
It is because they are all silly, superstitious men, Elizabeth thought. And of what am I worthy? Being wife to Baron Geoffrey, she supposed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her husband dismount and start toward her. So he was finally going to acknowledge her, Elizabeth thought with irritation. She suppressed the feeling and turned from Roger to smile at her husband. He must have a considerable amount on his mind, and she needed to burden him further with matters concerning her brother and herself. There wasn’t any place for irritation. Besides, Elizabeth admitted, it was a childish reaction. And she was no longer a child, but a woman, a wife.
She was the first to speak. “Good morning, my lord.” She gave a small curtsy as she spoke and then started forward, about to lean up and place a chaste kiss on his cheek as her mother had done whenever she greeted Elizabeth’s father, but his frown canceled her intent. It was as if he had read her aim and did not wish the contact.
Elizabeth felt her cheeks grow warm from the subtle rejection. She also felt awkward. She took her gaze from his, embarrassed, and noticed the dogs. Instinctively she patted her side with one hand, a silent command she used to bring her dogs to her sides. The dogs ignored her and continued to hover next to her husband, nudging him for attention. Their switch in allegiance was the last straw. She felt like screaming. And what would her husband think of that? she asked herself. To make such a scene in front of his knights . . . why, she doubted that he would ever live it down. Not that she would ever cause such a scene; she had far too much pride and dignity. Still, it was an amusing fantasy, and it did help to lighten her humiliation.
Geoffrey was speaking to Roger. Elizabeth waited as patiently as possible for him to finish his orders and give his attention to her. She noticed that the longer her husband spoke, the harder Roger scowled. What was causing his change in mood? She moved forward again so that she could hear her husband’s conversation.
“How many ride with him?” Roger asked her husband.
“No more than fifty, according to Riles,” Geoffrey answered.
They both looked so intent, and then Geoffrey turned his gaze to her, and in that instan
t, she knew. Even as the realization hit, the sounds of thunder in the distance, thunder from the hooves of hard-ridden horses, came to her ears. Belwain was coming!
All color drained from her face. Instinctively her hand went to her waist, to the sheath containing her dagger. She pulled the weapon free, holding it so firmly that the handle felt like it was a part of her hand. The wildness in her eyes mirrored her thoughts. I must find Thomas. I have to hide him. Where is he?
Geoffrey watched the transformation in his wife with a heavy heart. He longed to take her into his arms and offer comfort, to soothe the wildness in her gaze, to heal the injury. But he could not. And she would have more torment before the day was out.
Elizabeth turned, her destination unknown, her only thought to find her brother. Find and protect. She seemed to forget the dagger in her hand and that her husband was even present.
Geoffrey placed his hands on her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. “Do not do this,” he said in a soft voice.
Elizabeth stepped back and broke the hold. She tried to walk around her husband but he moved and blocked her path.
“I must find Thomas,” she explained in a hard voice. “Do not stop me.”
“Go to our bedroom and wait,” Geoffrey ordered. Elizabeth began shaking her head but Geoffrey ignored her refusal. “I will send your brother to you.”
“Now? You will send him to me now? Before Belwain sees him?” she asked. The desperation in her voice washed over Geoffrey like liquid sun, like the sand from the vats, scorching him with her grief and terror.
“Roger,” Geoffrey said, never taking his gaze from his wife, “the boy is in the tanner’s hut. Take him to Elizabeth’s room.”
Julie Garwood - [3 Book Box Set] Page 9