“It might work,” he mused.
She brushed off his tabard and granted him a smile. “Only if you win.”
Bartholomew suspected victory would not be readily won. “He will cheat,” he said with a smile.
Anna laughed and caught his face in her hands. “Finally, you learn some distrust of others,” she said, then kissed him.
It was a sweet yet fiery kiss, one that sent both heat and purpose through his veins, and one that ended all too soon.
He smiled as he looked down at Anna in his embrace. Her pride in her notion shone in her eyes. “It is a devious scheme.”
“And one that no one would expect from a man of your ilk,” she agreed. “But you might be able to use Marie for your ends, just as she would use you for hers. I think that would be fitting.”
He grimaced. “And what shall we do, you and I, when I am baron and wedded to Marie and you yet live in the village?”
Anna swallowed and her eyes shone with unshed tears. “We shall wish each other well and conduct ourselves with honor,” she replied, her words husky. “You can have no future with the smith’s daughter, and I know it as well as you do.”
Bartholomew kissed her again, more lingeringly, for he feared it would be the last time. He would not sully any marriage he made with infidelity, even if it was to a woman like Marie. He wished it might be otherwise. When he broke their kiss, he filled his gaze with the sight of Anna, his heart pounding fit to burst. “Be well,” he murmured, and brushed a tendril of hair from her cheek. “I shall never forget you, Anna, and my heart will always be yours.”
“And mine yours, to be sure,” she replied, then bowed as if he were a fine lord already. “Godspeed to you, my lord,” she added, and he saw her blink back her tears. “May every good fortune come to your hand.”
Bartholomew heard the quiver in Anna’s voice and wanted to reassure her, but he knew that if he touched her, his resolve would be lost.
“Keep the dog with you,” he said quietly. When she nodded, he turned and strode out of the cavern, bracing himself for whatever the day might bring.
He would endeavor to follow her plan and hoped it might succeed, for it offered the best possibility for their future.
As much as he might have wished otherwise.
Though the barony might be close to his grasp, Bartholomew was surprised to realize that he would surrender it all to be with the smith’s daughter forever.
His personal desire did not matter. He had to keep his word.
This was the price of being his father’s son, a knight and a man aspiring to hold the seal of Haynesdale in his own hand. Bartholomew had never before considered that the cost might be too high.
* * *
Anna knew Bartholomew could not have chosen differently. He was a man of merit, which was why she feared for his fate in the company of those who showed no regard for honor, justice or the welfare of others. It was not that he failed to realize there was wickedness, but that he could not participate in it. He would not become like them, and the fact of it made her heart ache.
If he died, she would mourn him all her days.
If he did not die, she would yearn for him all her days.
It was a poor reward, and Anna was saddened that love’s result was so meager.
She sat and watched Esme’s chickens, more despondent than ever she had been. If there was no son destined to return and no Bartholomew to challenge her, Anna could not imagine a good reason to awaken each day. If he succeeded and wedded Marie and she had to see him every day in that woman’s company, that too was reason to linger abed.
Anna much preferred the reason she had had to linger abed during the storm.
Cenric leaned on her leg and she rubbed his ears, smiling despite herself at his interest in the chickens. They ignored the hound, already confident that he would not touch them.
“So, he is gone,” Esme murmured, then came to sat beside Anna. “I doubted he would linger at Haynesdale once the snow ceased to fall.”
“He does linger at Haynesdale,” Anna replied. “For he keeps a pledge to Lady Marie.”
“That one!” Esme shook her head. “Lady Marie is not the measure of Sir Royce’s first wife, to be certain.”
“His first wife?” Anna was happy to seize on any topic that made her forget her woes—or Bartholomew’s quest.
“Aye, the one he brought first to Haynesdale, after Lady Gabriella’s death. She was a beauty, though she thought little of her husband’s abode.”
Anna had little recollection of that woman, though she knew that Royce had been wed before. “Was that why he had no son by her either? Did she refuse his attentions?”
Esme cackled. “There were tales, of course.”
“What manner of tales?”
The old woman smiled at Anna. “Did you never wonder that your father, the smith, was in possession of such a fine crossbow?”
“Of course, but it was only entrusted to me after his death. My mother saved it for me.” Anna shrugged. “There was little time for questions, for she granted it to me just before her labor began.”
“Your mother.” Esme nodded. “I might have said that you had your boldness from her blood, but that is not possible.”
Anna frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It never mattered, Anna, which was why you were not told the truth.”
“What truth?”
“But now I hear your admiration for that knight, and I fear it does matter. Does he have any regard for you?”
“Esme, you speak in riddles, and this day, I cannot bear it.”
“Does he?” the older woman repeated.
“It does not matter. He is a knight and may claim the title of Haynesdale. I am but the daughter of the village smith.”
The older woman leaned closer. “But you are not the smith’s daughter.”
Anna’s heart clenched.
“Your father was the Captain of the Guard at Haynesdale, and that crossbow was his own. He was the youngest son of the Duke of Arsent, with no birthright save his lineage and his spurs.”
Anna shook her head, unable to accept this tale. “My mother would never have been so disloyal to my father…”
“Nay, she would not and she was not. She was, however, loyal to the lady of Haynesdale.”
“I do not understand.”
Esme tapped Anna’s arm. “Your mother served the lady who was Royce’s first wife. She labored in the hall as a chambermaid in those days and she knew the lady’s secrets. She knew, for example, that the lady trysted with the Captain of the Guard.”
Anna caught her breath.
“Someone else knew, as well, for they were betrayed. The lady was confined to her chambers and the Captain of the Guard was executed.”
Anna raised her hand to her lips.
“The lady relied greatly upon your mother and they found much conviviality when they both rounded with child at the same time. A first child for both of them. They even labored on the same night, under the same full moon. Your mother’s labor was troubled from the outset. I remember it well, as well as the smith’s agitation.” Esme paused for a moment. “The smith’s daughter died without making a first cry.”
Anna shook her head. “But I am here.”
Esme smiled. “The lady of Haynesdale bore a girl, as well, a child who showed her determination early. She was a robust babe and one who yelled mightily to announce her arrival. She was her father’s daughter, for the Captain of the Guard had been both bold and valiant, if not fearless.”
Anna gasped.
“And so it was that the lady of Haynesdale feared for her daughter’s life, guessing that Royce would not tolerate a bastard in his abode. She no longer trusted her husband, and when your mother confessed her loss, they two concocted a scheme. They traded their children in the night, the lady claiming the corpse as her own and the smith telling all that his wife had born a robust girl.”
“Nay,” Anna whispered, her heart thundering.
“The lady gave the crossbow to the smith, that you might know your legacy. None knew what would happen later, and once the smith and his wife died, there seemed little merit in telling you the tale.”
“Does anyone else know it?”
“I do,” Father Ignatius said from behind Anna. “And others suspect it. You have your father’s air of command and his audacity.”
Esme leaned closer to whisper. “You are nobly born, Anna, the daughter of a duke’s youngest son and a baroness.”
Anna looked between the two of them with astonishment, then spun to her feet. She could wed Bartholomew. Perhaps they could triumph together.
Perhaps she would kill Royce for him.
“I have to find Bartholomew. Where did he go?”
“He asked for direction to the old mill from here,” Father Ignatius confided.
* * *
“There are women I would trust in such a situation, lad, but this Lady of Haynesdale is not one of them.”
Bartholomew lay in the snow alongside Duncan, his chin on his gloved fist, watching the old mill. The sun was just past its zenith and naught moved in the old village save a herd of goats that wandered across the snow. A pair of villagers tended them without much interest, and they bleated as they dug beneath the fresh snow for fodder.
“I do not need to trust her, not if I follow Anna’s scheme.”
Duncan grimaced. “I think it risky to trust her even so far as that. She might be in alliance with her husband, for truly, she has as much to lose as he.”
“There are many barriers between me and the barony.”
“And the simplest solution for Sir Royce would be to see you dead now, before any of those obstacles are conquered.”
Bartholomew granted his companion a glance. “Do not suggest that I break my word.”
The older man shook his head. “You have no argument from me over the keeping of a pledge, lad. What other man of your acquaintance has spent years keeping his word, and traveled the breadth of Christendom to do it?”
“You have?”
“If Fergus has found trouble in my absence, my life is over as I know it,” Duncan growled. “I swore to repay his father for saving my life, and so his father dispatched me to ensure his son returned from Outremer.” Duncan glowered at the village before them. “If he has found some mischief to make it otherwise, when I could do naught about it, I will be vexed indeed.”
“Fergus will return soon enough.”
Duncan’s brows rose. “And so I pray that it will be.”
“Years keeping your word,” Bartholomew echoed.
“And I did not regret a moment of it, not until we reached Paris.”
“Why was that?”
“Because I found something I cared about other than my word, lad, but one commitment must be fulfilled before another can be made. You do not have to argue the matter with me.”
Bartholomew considered the older man, wondering what he had found of greater import. “What did you find?”
“Who, lad. The question is who.” Duncan smiled. “A wee lass with fire in her eyes.” He sighed.
“Radegunde,” Bartholomew guessed.
Duncan’s eyes narrowed as he peered at the mill. “One pledge fulfilled before making another. That is all a man can do.”
It startled Bartholomew to realize that he and Anna were not the sole lovers kept apart by circumstance. “When Fergus returns, I will ride to Killairic with you, and threaten his life that you might fulfill your pledge.”
Duncan smiled. “I appreciate the offer, lad, but you have more than sufficient challenge before you.”
That was true enough.
“Look,” the Scotsman murmured. “She comes.”
Bartholomew watched as Lady Marie arrived before the mill. She rode a fine mare, and her maids were on smaller palfreys. All glanced about themselves furtively. One seized the reins of her lady’s horse, and the other dismounted, hastening into the mill with her lady. The second maid led the three horses away, taking cover in the forest.
“She guards the road to the new keep,” Duncan murmured and cast Bartholomew a knowing glance. “The lady is well prepared for her assignation.”
Bartholomew was studying the scene, wondering how best to ensure he was discovered. Anna’s plan was a good one, but it relied upon the presence of someone trusted by the baron. “There,” he murmured, pointing to a man who stepped out of the burned remnant of the old hall. He handed his crossbow to Duncan. “Let him follow me.”
Duncan nodded. “If he does not enter the mill after I have counted to a hundred, I will drive him inside.” He settled a bolt into the crossbow and cocked it.
Bartholomew recalled that he yet had the keys of Father Ignatius. If he was captured, they would be taken from him. He granted the ring to Duncan, who tucked it into his purse.
They exchanged a glance, then Bartholomew headed for the mill. He remained in the shelter of the forest, heading toward the maid who lingered on the road. He stepped into the clearing of the old village before reaching her, then hastened to the mill. He paused at the portal, ensuring that he was visible and was reassured to not be struck down. He took a deep breath, then entered the mill.
One way or the other, much would be resolved by the time Duncan counted to one hundred.
* * *
The mill might not have been the finest place for an assignation, but it was not all bad. Marie had chosen it with care. The mill was, first and foremost, sufficiently distant from the hall that Royce would not hear any evidence of what she did. It boasted several hiding spots large enough for a man, for the old granaries were intact. It was cold, but the roof was whole, and the great millstone was of the perfect height, in Marie’s experience, for intercourse. She cast off her cloak and laid it on the millstone, even as Agnes watched the portal.
“He comes,” the maid said softly.
Marie wrapped her arms about herself in the cold. The encounter would have to be quick. While she had consumed the potion that was said to aid in conception, Royce had declined to take more than a taste of the wine she had tainted at the board. He said he had much labor to do on his books, for the taxes would be sent to the crown soon, and had left the board early.
While that had solved the question of her leaving the keep without arousing his suspicion, he would not be asleep as she had schemed. There had been a time when she might have savored the risk, but not on this day.
Bartholomew stepped through the portal, narrowing his eyes against the comparative darkness of the mill. His gaze flicked past her, which did not please her overmuch, to the large chamber of the miller’s house. He looked most intently at the floor, then at a distant window, which made no sense at all.
“Hasten yourself!” she said, stepped forward to seize his hand. “In here and it must be quickly done.” She reached beneath his tabard but he caught her hand before she could unlace his chausses.
“There must be some romance,” he protested, then smiled down at her. He raised his other hand to her cheek. “I would see you pleased, Lady Marie.”
“There is no time for such pleasure,” she insisted, reaching again for the front of his chausses. He backed her into the millstone, which was progress of a kind, and trapped her against him with his hips. All she could feel was his chain mail and it was cold enough to make her shiver anew.
He cupped her chin in his hand. “Beguile me,” he invited, his voice low, and Marie ground her teeth.
“Take me,” she retorted, tugging at the hem of her kirtle. “Before we are discovered.”
He considered her, still holding her captive against the millstone, then removed his gloves, one finger at a time. Marie wriggled against him with impatience, but he took an age to cast them aside. He then eased the flat of his hand over her thigh, smiling as he pushed up her chemise and kirtle, baring the top of her stocking to view. He granted her a glittering glance, and she caught her breath at his allure. He caught her nape in his other hand, t
hen bent to kiss her beneath the ear. Marie sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, wishing there could be more time for this encounter. She sensed a shadow and her eyes flew open.
“Nay!” she cried when she saw the man silhouetted in the portal. It was Gaultier, to be sure. He lifted a knife to throw it. She kicked Bartholomew aside and he scooped her up, just as the knife buried itself in the wall behind them. Agnes leapt for Gaultier, but he struck her in the face with his mailed fist.
Agnes fell to the floor, bleeding, and did not move again.
Marie’s heart thundered in terror. Gaultier aimed to kill, not to maim. He unsheathed his sword and strode into the mill, his gaze fixed upon Bartholomew.
“You would take what is not your own,” he growled.
Bartholomew drew his own sword, the blade glinting in the light. “I defend the lady’s right to make a choice.”
“She has no right to give her lord’s property away,” Gaultier replied. “And I have every right to defend what is his.” The two men charged each other, their blades clashing with fury. Marie fell back and scrambled toward the portal. She fell beside her maid and felt for her pulse.
There was none, and the pool of blood grew ever larger.
Agnes was dead, dead for her loyalty to Marie.
What had she done?
The two knights fought fiercely, moving back and forth across the floor and striking savagely at each other. Marie watched in horror as Gaultier moved suddenly, tripping Bartholomew and flinging him against a wall. His blade was at Bartholomew’s throat, and she knew he would kill the other knight. She could not believe that Bartholomew had been bested so readily, but she would not see him die as well.
“Nay!” Marie cried again, and Gaultier hesitated for a precious moment. “My lord husband will be vexed if you cheat him of his justice.”
Gaultier smiled. He pressed his blade against Bartholomew’s throat and Marie feared her protest had been in vain. She could see red blood running down the blade. “Drop your weapons, and the baron may decide your fate.”
Bartholomew set down his sword, moving slowly and placing it on the floor. He removed his belt with his sheathed dagger, set it down as well, then straightened with his hands held high.
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