by Sarah Hegger
“It will not help these people.”
“Nay.” Father Joseph crossed himself. “They are with God now, and their suffering is eased. It is the living to whom we must turn our eyes.”
“You have Sir William to thank for this.” Alice motioned the increased activity about the village. “He saw in an instant what I have been blind to for years.”
“God bless him.” Father Joseph’s voice choked with emotion, and he cleared his throat. “And God bless you, my lady. We cannot fix the past. We can only go forward.”
If only it were that easy. Alice nodded and waved Seamus closer. “I am ready to return now.”
“My lady.” Father Joseph touched her arm. “I have found life rarely falls into clear paths of good and evil or right and wrong. We are human, and we live our lives in the gray area betwixt these things.”
His words made no sense to Alice. All that she saw about her came from the evil of neglect and ignorance. There were none of Father Joseph’s gray areas here. She nodded and led Seamus back to where he had tied their cart.
Back at Tarnwych she hunted down the one person who could help her.
Beatrice sat in the hall with Richard, Mathew, and Adam playing a game of stones beside her.
“Lady Beatrice. Could I speak with you?”
Beatrice stiffened, and her face tightened in anger. “I have spoken with William earlier this morning.”
“Aye.” She deserved all the anger Beatrice and William heaped on her head. “I need to ask you to help me with something.”
Rising, Beatrice dusted off her skirts. “I do not know that I am inclined to help you, Lady Alice.”
“Teach me how to be a chatelaine.”
Beatrice stilled and stared at her. “What did you say?”
“I know what William must have told you. I only now returned from the village and have seen it for myself. Whatever he said cannot convey the horror of what goes on there. I cannot fix my past mistakes.” She had Father Joseph to thank for that one. “But I can make sure I do not make them again.”
“Let us walk.” Beatrice motioned Martha to watch the children. She waited until they had moved far enough away for privacy. “How is it that you do not know how to care for a keep? My mother taught Faye and I from the time we were little.”
“I was raised by Sister Julianna, and I do not believe she had any experience to pass on.”
Beatrice toyed with the end of her flaxen braid. She stopped before a casement overlooking the moors. “I suppose not.”
“I am not excusing what has happened.” Alice swallowed past the dryness in her throat. “I want to learn.”
“You know, Alice, I keep trying not to like you.” With a sigh, Beatrice looked at her. “First there was you not wanting to allow us into Tarnwych, then the thing with Mathew, and now this. I look at all these actions and my head condemns you as a cold, miserable bitch.”
Put before her like that, Alice could see how Beatrice would think thus, still…
“But here is my problem, Alice.” Beatrice took her hand and led her to the casement seat. Drawing Alice beside her, she said, “I do like you, Alice. You are funny and sweet, and despite your dull dresses and that God-awful wimple, there is a sparkle to you that I want to draw closer to. I know William sees it, and I have struggled not to see it since I arrived here.”
It sounded better than a cold, miserable bitch. “I have not worn the wimple for a while now.”
“You see.” Beatrice squeezed her hand. “That is exactly what I am talking about. You try. And here you are begging me for help when you know I am wroth with you.”
Not begging, precisely. “Will you help me?”
“Aye, Alice.” Beatrice patted her knee. “Why do you not tell me how much you know of a chatelaine’s duties, and we can go from there.”
Beatrice listened. It did not take long and when Alice fell silent she wanted to crawl beneath the casement seat and hide.
“Well.” Beatrice dusted her hands and rose. “It seems we have a lot of ground to cover.” She winked at Alice. “And I do like a quest.”
* * * *
Tapers guttered in their sockets as night gave way to first blush of morning. William rubbed his tired eyes and turned them back to Gord’s list.
The list staggered him, and Gord kept adding to it. He had brought much wealth to Tarnwych, but not enough for this. The list spoke of years of neglect. Some of it went back to when Sir Ivo had charge of Tarnwych demesne. As much as he would relish doing so, he could not lay all of this at Sister Julianna’s feet. Or Alice’s.
He had stayed away from her throughout the night, his anger rising and falling in dizzying waves as he unpacked the bundle of wrongness at the heart of Tarnwych.
Aonghas might not agree to assist them, or perhaps might not be able to. It would mean another harsh winter for the villagers. He would wait for Donnchadh to return and maybe send to Calder for Gregory and Faye’s aid. It stuck in his craw, but what was his damnable pride compared to the villager’s lives?
Beatrice slid into place on the bench beside him. “Have you been at this all night?”
“Aye.” He took a long draught of wine, but it tasted sour in his mouth and he grimaced.
“Hmm.” Beatrice bent and examined Gord’s list. She traced the parchment edge with her finger. “I spoke with Alice yesterday.”
“Did you?” God spare him one of Beatrice’s self-righteous harangues at Alice this morn. She could say nothing that he had not already voiced, in his head, at least.
“She came to me to help her understand the duties of chatelaine.”
“A little late, is it not?” Women knew these things. They were taught from girlhood.
“You know, William, you are a horse’s ass.”
“Eh?”
“She told me what you said to her.” Beatrice tossed her head.
Anger had him on his feet. “She has been telling tales of what should stay between us.”
“Oh, sit down.” Beatrice yanked his tunic sleeve. “She was defending you when she told me.”
“Defending me?” He took his seat, feeling a bit like a horse’s ass.
“Aye, I was telling her you had no right to say such things to her, and she was saying you did.”
“No right.” He sprang to his feet again before he boxed his sister’s ears. “Did you see that village? Did you?”
“Shut your cake hole.” Beatrice stood and stuck her face closer. “She should have taken care of her people. I know that. But you are forgetting how she was raised. You want to be angry with someone and you have picked Alice.”
“She deserves it.”
“Nay, she does not.” Beatrice rapped his forehead with her knuckles. “You and I, we grew up with Mother and Father working as a team to keep their people cared for. Mother came from a well-run keep and she had Nurse with her to give her guidance. Who has guided Alice? That horrible old woman.”
He wanted to tell Beatrice she was wrong, but she was not, and he threw himself back on the bench.
“And another thing.” Always another thing with Beatrice. “Do you see Father constantly telling Mother what is wrong with her or what she needs to do better? Or Garrett carping on at me like I do not meet his expectations? I know without doubt you have never seen Gregory pointing out Faye’s inadequacies. And do you know why?”
“Enlighten me.”
“Because they accept us for who and what we are. They do not love us for what we could be, with a little help from them, but accept and love what we are.”
“I do not love Alice.”
“Then you are an even bigger horse’s ass, because there is a lot about Alice to love.”
* * * *
William would wager his sword arm Beatrice accompanied him to the village the next day to vex him further. Barely lucid on a couple of hours of snatched sleep in the last couple of days, his patience with his younger sister wore thin
.
Two days of Alice floating around the keep like a regretful ghost and Bea giving him meaningful looks had him ready to lop heads off.
The activity in the village eased his ruffled feathers. Tarnwych crews made slow but steady progress with the dwellings. Beneath a blustery wind, village men had taken up tools to hurry the process along. The icy bite of snow hung in the air, and roiled in the clouds above them. If they could get some of the hovels weather-tight, he would rest easier tonight.
Father Joseph stood on a roof crossbeam, his robes tucked into his belt, and called orders to the village men. The man went some way to restoring his faith in the clergy. For every Sister Julianna, a Father Joseph kept the good side of the scales balanced with the bad.
Beatrice dismounted and kept pace with him as he approached the nearest work area. “You have done well here.”
The words filled him with a warm glow. “My thanks.”
“Of course, none of us would have expected such of you.” She huddled deeper into her furs.
And there went the glow, tossed into the stiff wind and carried away. Cursing himself as he said it, he still needed to know. “And why not?”
Beatrice laughed. “Come now, William. This is hardly your sort of thing.”
“Caring for people?” He cared. He had always cared. At Anglesea he took his duties seriously, built more than his fair share of barns, and harvested alongside the villagers.
“Taking things seriously.” Beatrice tucked her hand into his arm. “Assuming responsibility for those around you. Normally you wait for Roger to lead, and you follow.”
“That is not true.” William disengaged his arm. Roger did not lead him anywhere but straight into their father’s disapproval.
Beatrice gaped at him. “Do not be wroth, William. It was not meant to offend.”
“Well, it does offend.” He strode away from her. He took his responsibilities seriously. He did. He always assumed the mantle of duty and took control of a situation. All right, when Bea had done her crazy London jaunt, he had made the decision to ride for home. Nay, Father had made that decision. All right then, Faye. When young Simon went missing. He had given Faye the knife. After Faye had decided to pursue her son.
Damn sisters. Always pointing out a man’s faults and rubbing his nose in it. “We have all changed.”
“Indeed, we have.” Beatrice pinched his arm. “Some of us for the better.”
“Riders coming!” The call came from Father Joseph.
Work stopped and men turned toward the fast-moving party coming across the moors.
William pulled his sword free. Most of his men were armed only with lathes and hammers, but the riders would not find them untrained. He had done that. Let Beatrice remark on that. “Can you see who it is?”
Father Joseph shaded his eyes and squinted. “Aonghas the Red,” he said. “And he brings a large party with him.”
William released his sword. Wily as a fox, but Aonghas would not make war with his sons on the opposing side. William motioned the work crews. “Get back to work.”
Aonghas slowed his horse as he entered the village. “William.”
“Aonghas.”
Aonghas turned in his saddle and took a long, slow look all about him. “Well, this is a sorry sight.”
As much as it galled William to admit it, Aonghas had a valid point. “Aye.”
“I knew Dunstan and that blasted nun were up to no good.” Aonghas dismounted and swaggered to him. “Word reached me over the years of how matters lay here.”
“It was not your land to do aught about it.”
“True.” Aonghas’s step lost some of its jaunty twitch. “But up here, we care for our own, and we do not take the meat from another man’s table.”
Not an apology for Aonghas’s poaching but near enough, and William nodded.
“Which is why I offer you my help.” Aonghas toed aside a piece of rotting lumber thrown there by the work crew.
“What did you bring me?”
“Strong backs.” Aonghas clapped him on the shoulder. For such a small man, he packed a wallop decent enough to send William forward a step. “Found a few of those lying about my hall growing fat and thought I would bring them over.”
The rest of Aonghas’s party had dismounted and stood beside their horses. Some of them bore a strong resemblance to their sire.
Donnchadh stood to the side, his fist around the collar of a filthy, gangly boy. William felt sure he had seen the lad before.
“More sons?” William raised his brow at Aonghas. In truth, Aonghas’s boys had proved somewhat of a blessing. Loud, a bit unmannerly, and inclined to question orders, but they had grown into good fighters and did not quibble with picking up the axe when work needed doing. Aonghas had raised them well. “I will take them. They can stay once the village is repaired.”
Aonghas’s shoulders drooped. “Now, William, you take all the sport out of it when you roll over like a thirty-year-old virgin.”
Beatrice snorted a laugh from behind him.
Aonghas glanced behind at Beatrice, stilled, and stared. “And who might this be?”
“Aonghas,” William said through gritted teeth. “May I present my sister, Lady Beatrice.”
“Ah.” Aonghas strutted past him and bowed low to Beatrice. “A pretty name for the prettiest flower in all of the kingdom.”
“My married sister.”
Aonghas rubbed his belly. “Happily married?”
“Aye.”
“A blow indeed.” Aonghas raised Beatrice’s hand to his lips. “But if that should change, my lady, know that you have a true heart up here in the north.”
Beatrice giggled. Giggled!
William took savage satisfaction in picturing what Garrett would do to Aonghas if he were here.
“And how many women is that heart promised to?” Beatrice had his measure.
“A small detail.” Aonghas placed Bea’s hand upon his arm. “Now, if you are Beatrice, then I have a lad with me who claims you will be happy to see him.”
“Newt?” Beatrice peered at the lad still in Donnchadh’s clutches. “Is that you?”
The gutter snipe Beatrice had befriended in her trip to London. Come to think on it, the lad had played a role in Faye’s adventure as well. “What is he doing here?”
“Let me go.” Newt wrenched at Donnchadh’s hold. The bigger man opened his hand and Newt’s struggles sent him staggering forward. “Fine welcome Newt gets for coming all this way on a deed of mercy.”
“You must have grown two feet.” Beatrice looked the boy up and down with a maternal air. “You are near my height.”
Newt adjusted his filthy tunic. “Same thing as Lady Faye said, and then she gave me new raiment.”
Newt’s tunic and braies hardly qualified as “raiment,” but someone had educated the lad. “You saw Faye? Is she well?”
“Aye.” Newt pressed his shoulders back. “Has a new baby and all.”
“Oh.” Beatrice clapped her hands in delight. “What did she have?”
“A baby.” Newt pulled a face at her.
“Boy or girl?” That expression Newt pulled made a man itch to cuff him.
“Girl.” Newt hawked and spat. “They plan to name her Elizabeth, Bess for short. Only they are waiting for people to get better at Anglesea.”
“I wish I could see her.” Beatrice’s teary whisper tugged at William’s heart. The distance between them and Anglesea yawned at times like this.
“I came up here with news.” Newt puffed out his chest. “I was sent by that rude old Nurse woman to tell you Lady Mary is recovered.”
Beatrice gave a cry of delight and hugged Newt.
William would never hug the smelly scoundrel, but the news he brought sweetened his day. His mother would grow stronger.
“Nurse said to tell you not to come home yet, though. She wants to be sure the outbreak is over. Said she would send for you whe
n it was safe.”
“Any news of Tom?”
Newt dropped his gaze to the floor. “He still ails.”
Age had not improved the lad’s looks any. His ears still stuck out the side of his head, and his ratty features now wore a smattering of blemishes. He would grow tall, though, with those hammers sticking out his sleeves and the big trenchers at the end of his legs.
Beatrice nodded, her face saddened again. “I will tell Ivy. Thank you, Newt. You were kind to come all this way and tell us.”
Newt looked alarmed. “It were not kind. You and your family owe me a sack load of favors that you cannot very well deliver if the lot of you are dead.”
Chapter 23
Alice caressed the velvet. Such beautiful fabrics, and she had no notion how to fashion them. Perhaps a woman in a gown made of these fabrics would not feel like such a dull, brown wren. Her husband might even think her pretty. Beatrice had suggested—if Beatrice’s broad statements could be called suggestions—that perhaps a chatelaine should dress the part.
From where she lounged on Alice’s bed, Beatrice propped herself onto her elbows. “Now that was a big sigh.”
“Are you certain it is right, given what is happening in the village, for me to float around dressed as a queen?”
“Alice.” Beatrice sat up with a groan. “We have been over this. You are the head of this demesne, and as such your appearance is noted. Besides, how will any of the village women benefit from you not wearing those silks?” She patted her hair into order. “Indeed, it might be considered wasteful letting them molder in that chest.”
Beatrice had an answer for everything. Her reasoning sometimes needed a little growing accustomed to, but she had no lack of opinions.
“William does not walk about in sacking.” Beatrice sniffed and rearranged the pillows behind her back. “He is a lord. He looks like a lord and he behaves like one. It would only be wrong if you dressed yourself sumptuously and refused to provide for Tarnwych folk. As that is being addressed…” Beatrice shrugged.