“Uncle, what do you in the kitchens?”
Gaspar jerked his head up, surprise widening his eyes.
“Bloody hell, Royce.” He laughed, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. “I thought to get more wine, and took a wrong turn.” He ducked through the doorway, dusting his hands over his tunic. “I thought to never find my way.”
“Did you want more wine, you had but to call a servant.”
“’Tis late, and none were about.”
He took note of the angry set of the older man’s mouth and the flash in his eyes as he stepped from the threshold. But Royce said naught, instead he dogged his every move the next day in the guise of a genial host.
’Twas not because of the Saxon woman’s words that he watched his uncle so closely; ’twas the man’s odd behavior that put Royce on alert. There was an edge of anger in Gaspar’s voice. He seemed tense and watchful.
He couldn’t shake the idea that somehow the woman was involved in both his uncle’s appearance and Rosard’s disappearance. He would find the link. And woe to the woman who betrayed the Normans, for he would not temper his anger as his father had.
Their uninvited guests finally disappeared beyond the road to Fairhurst. Royce pulled himself from his thoughts and quickly descended the stairs to the courtyard in search of Gyfton. He found him at the steps of the keep.
“Gather ten men. We go in search of Father.”
His brother nodded toward the stables. “Aye. We’re ready.” Norman soldiers, mounted on their horses waited, arrayed in battle gear.
“Good.” Slipping on his gauntlets, he squinted up at the dark clouds, and then to the muddy bailey. Any tracks would be washed away from the downpour.
“I still do not know why you let Gaspar leave.” Gyfton matched his strides to Royce’s.
Swinging up onto his saddle, Royce pinned his brother with a look. “We have no evidence against him, only the word of a Saxon woman. For all we know, she is lying.”
“I don’t understand you, brother.” Gyfton shook his head, then wiped his face before donning his helm. “Think you she killed our father?” Disbelief filled his words as he mounted his horse.
“’Tis a possibility.”
Gyfton snorted.
“If she did tell the truth, we still have no evidence.” He looked at Gyfton. “We cannot accuse a nobleman of murder without proof.”
Royce turned his horse and headed out of the courtyard, leaving Gyfton and the others to follow him.
* * * * *
“My lady.” Joseph tumbled down the stairs, the cellar keys jingling in his hands, and Merton close on his heels. “I just learned of your return.” The old man came to a halt before Anora, a frown puckering his brow. “But what are you doing locked in here?”
Anora glanced past Joseph to Merton. “Sir Royce did not know about his key.”
“Ah.” She turned back to Joseph, noting the concern and confusion etched on his face. Rather than cause Joseph more concern, Anora smiled. “I will tell you all later.”
Joseph’s gaze traveled over her and Anora cringed at the picture she presented. She was dirty, her clothing stained and her hair a disgrace.
His eyes widened and he pointed to her jaw. “What is this? How did you come by that bruise? And why are you—”
“’Tis a story for another time.”
Joseph looked from Anora to Merton, then fixed her with a measuring gaze. With a nod he accepted her word. He glanced over his shoulder to Merton. “We were quite worried, weren’t we?”
“Oh, aye, that we were,” Merton chimed, shuffling his feet.
Anora stepped around the two men and ascended the stairs. “Joseph, would you have a bath brought to my room?” She was weary to the bone and heartsick, and feared any discussion would bring her to tears.
“Yes, yes, of course my lady.”
Anora climbed the stairs barely aware of where her feet carried her. She found herself pushing open a door and it wasn’t until she closed it behind her that she realized which room she’d entered.
She stared at the large bed in the chamber she’d shared but one night with Rosard. Tears flooded her eyes, spilling down her cheeks, and she fought the need to wail out her grief.
Closing her eyes, she swallowed against another tide of anguish and turned from the bed. Once she had her emotions under control, she gazed at a small table, noting her comb and basket of hair ribbons arranged there.
He had moved her things to this room, despite her resistance. Never again would she share this room or the bed with him. She gasped at the pain that pierced her heart at the realization.
She swallowed back the tears that burned behind her eyes, threatening to spill in torrents down her cheeks. Her knees weakened and she closed her eyes, grabbing the bedpost, lest she crumpled to the floor and never rise again. Blinking open her eyes, she noticed a golden girdle lying atop neatly folded lengths of deep blue, emerald green and white cloth.
She reached out and touched the metal chain and it warmed beneath her fingers. She brushed the softness of the cloth as she lifted the girdle, frowning.
Where had such a—
“’Tis a wonderful bride gift, is it not, my lady?”
With a gasp of surprise, Anora whirled around, the girdle sliding from her fingers to land on the floor with a thump.
The servant bustled forward, retrieving the chain from the floor. “I’m sorry, my lady, I did not mean to startle you.” The girl placed the girdle back in its place atop the cloth, her hands lingering on the gifts.
Anora nodded in response as she stared at Rosard’s offerings, grief clogging her throat and fresh tears burning her eyes.
The girl busied herself stoking the embers in the brazier and removing the screen that concealed the wooden tub in the corner. Finding a linen in Anora’s small trunk, she shook it out and lined the tub with it. After arranging soap and a drying cloth nearby, the girl turned to Anora.
“Will you need my help to bathe, my lady?”
Anora met the girl’s gaze, noting the concern in her brown eyes. “Nay, I’m sure you have other tasks to tend.”
Shuffling feet heralded the arrival of her bath water. She stood aside, staring out the window as the morning sun inched its way higher in the sky. Mayhap she should have spent more time searching for Rosard. What if—no, she cut the thought off with a shake of her head. There were no ‘what ifs’ in life. ’Twas foolish to even entertain such thoughts.
When the last of the water-bearing servants left, the maid along with them, she turned from the view of Fairhurst land, stripped off her clothes and slid into the bath. The warm water eased the ache in her body, but could not reach the pain in her heart.
Leaning her head back against the side of the tub, Anora closed her eyes. The image of red-brown earth shimmered beneath her eyelids. From the markings it had appeared Rosard’s body had been dragged away. Though she saw no animal tracks, she was certain that had been his fate.
Anora cursed herself for her faint heart. She should have searched farther into the forest to find her husband’s body. A lump formed in her throat at the thought of seeing his once strong body mangled by wild animals.
She could not help Rosard, but she had saved his sons and the others at Fairhurst. Still, that deed did not assuage the loss of her husband.
“Please God, welcome him into Your kingdom.” With her whispered prayer came hot tears of guilt and grief.
If only she had returned with him from the clearing, he would not have gone in search of her and met his death. But she’d clung to her pride with a vengeance, determined to continue the Saxon fight, refusing to see the man and what he did for her people—the care with which he tended them and Fairhurst.
She shook her head in despair. ’Twas a guilt she would carry the rest of her life.
What would happen to the castle and its inhabitants now? Would Royce take the title and lands? Or would William send another?
Rosard’s eldest had made it qui
te clear that he did not like nor trust her. Or any Saxon for that matter. Would he turn her out and enslave her people? Or simply slaughter the lot of them?
A shivered rippled over her body, despite the warm water.
* * * * *
“He is not here.”At Gyfton’s dispirited words, Royce looked up from the ground he examined and met his younger brother’s tortured gaze. “He was dragged from here.” Gyfton pointed to the traces of blood mixed with the dirt of the forest floor. “To there.” He pointed to a cluster of bushes a short distance away. “I found indications that he was pulled from the bushes, but the tracks stop just beyond those trees.”
Royce looked in the direction Gyfton pointed. Though rain pelted the castle, here in the forest, the dense bower formed by the trees protected the area where his father fell.
“There is a trail of blood, but it ends with the tracks. There are a few animal prints around that spot, as well as here.” Gyfton’s voice broke and Royce glanced at him quickly before looking away, uncomfortable with his brother’s show of emotion.
“Sir Royce?”
He turned to find one of his father’s men approaching on horseback.
“I followed them as you requested. Just beyond the tree line a goodly number of tracks joined those of your uncle.”
Royce nodded. “They have left Fairhurst land.”
“So Lady Anora spoke true.”
Royce looked back to his brother. “We do not know that, Gyfton. You are too quick to trust.”
“Did she not tell you that Gaspar would try the east portal door? Did she not claim that he camped the bulk of his soldiers beyond the walls of Fairhurst?”
“Aye.”
“Then why can you not believe her?”
“Just because a part of her story has been proven, does not mean everything she said is true.”
Gyfton shook his head. “Why are you so distrustful of her? She has done naught to warrant it.”
Royce snorted. “She is a woman and a Saxon.”
“Someday brother, you will have to tell me how you came to hold women in such low regard.”
He shrugged and stared at a spot on the ground for a long moment and rubbed his chin. “Father is a large man.”
Gyfton scowled at him. “Aye, as are you.”
“’Twould take a large beast to drag him off. A beast larger than any roaming this forest.”
“Mayhap it was a pack.”
“See you any shred of evidence?” Royce walked around the small area. “Though there are prints of animals, there is no trace of clothing.” He squinted at the ground. “Nay, Father was not taken by beast. Only a man would have the strength.”
“Think you Father lives?” Hope filled Gyfton’s voice.
“There is too much blood.” Royce sighed and raised his head. “We sweep the area again.” He ordered the men as he strode to his horse. “He cannot have simply disappeared.”
Later, as they returned to the castle with no idea what had become of Rosard, Royce pondered the situation.
Was Lady Anora protecting Saxon rebels? Had they killed his father and removed the body?
’Twould not be the first time a man paid the price for a woman’s deceitful nature. Had not his life been torn asunder by his mother’s activities with another man? ’Twas when he was older that he realized her perfidy.
He was but five, consigned to the nursery when visitors arrived. He’d awakened from a terrifying dream in the middle of the night and gone to his mother’s room seeking comfort. He braved much in his childish mind as he crept down the darkened corridor to her room. He quietly opened the door only to find her room empty and unidentifiable sounds coming from the next room. He’d pressed his ear to the door and heard her gasp, “My lord!”
Royce snorted. He’d thought, child that he was, that the man must have had a bad dream as well and his mother comforted him.
’Twas years later that he identified what he’d heard that night and on several other nights when the man returned.
He pushed aside the memories. Women were ever deceitful. They could not be trusted.
Especially his father’s new wife. He frowned. But what could she hope to gain? The death of his father would not see the end of Norman rule.
And what of his uncle’s behavior? Could Gaspar be responsible as she claimed?
Nay, he could not credit it. He did not believe Gaspar had anything to do with his father’s disappearance. The man was titled, with all the lands and coin that went with it. Unlike his father, who’d had to earn what he received. Fairhurst was the first property he had been awarded.
But why then did his uncle camp two-thirds of his men outside the walls and never mention it?
Mayhap he simply did not want to put a burden upon the resources of the castle and did not wish to embarrass him by mentioning it.
Royce shook his head, trying to put order to the thoughts trampling his mind. The castle came into view and moments later he entered the inner bailey with the others.
Anora watched the return of Rosard’s sons and closed her eyes, leaning her head against the shutters of the window. They did not find him, she thought, swallowing the despair rising in her throat.
Turning from the window, she closed the shutters, rubbing her arms against the cold creeping into the room. The sun was beginning to set and soon all would gather in the great hall for news of Rosard and a meal of bread, cheese and sweetmeats.
She crossed to a chair beside the brazier and sat, physically and emotionally spent from waiting most of the day for news of her husband.
The chamber door opened and Royce entered, closing it with a loud thud. Startled, Anora jumped to her feet, overturning the small table beside her chair.
He stood there staring at her, his eyes narrowed, his stance stiff with fury.
“We found nothing.” His voice rumbled with anger.
“Did you look—”
“We searched the entire area. But then you knew we would not find him.” He advanced a few steps. “Who is in league with you? What have you done with my father?”
Anora gasped. “You accuse me of your father’s demise?” Disbelief widened her eyes. “I came to you to warn you. ’Twas your uncle’s man—”
“You are responsible. You lured him to the forest.”
“I did not.” Anora moved closer to the warmth of the brazier. “He left me in the clearing and returned to the castle.” She stared at the glowing embers. “I needed time with my thoughts and wandered into the forest.” She looked up, meeting Royce’s gaze. “Had I returned with him from the clearing, he might still be alive.” She looked away from his accusing glare. “’Tis a guilt I will carry the rest of my life.” Anora battled back tears before bringing her gaze up to meet his. “But I swear to you, I was not party to your father’s death.”
“I expected your denial.” He turned to the door. “Mayhap King William can force the truth from your lips.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Royce, you cannot send Lady Anora to William.”
“And why not?”
“Well, for two reasons. First, the king is in Maine putting down a rebellion there. You can hardly send her to Normandy and expect the king to take responsibility for her in the midst of an uprising.”
He frowned at Gyfton, seeing the flaw in his plan.
“And second, she is still Father’s wife.”
“And murderer.”
“We do not have proof. Why are you so eager to cast guilt upon her, but not Gaspar?”
Royce stared at his brother. “You ask such a question?” He shook his head. “She is Saxon. Gaspar is Norman and our uncle.”
Gyfton snorted. “Aye, and no Norman has ever caused the death of his own kin, is that what you are saying?”
“Where is your loyalty? You would take the side of a Saxon wench?”
“I am taking no sides. But I do see how your prejudice is coloring your conclusions.”
“And what would you do?”
>
“I would send a missive to Odo of Bayeux. He is acting regent during the king’s absence from England. Inform him of Father’s suspicious disappearance. And mayhap mention the timing of Gaspar’s visit.”
“’Twould take too long.”
“Are you in such a hurry, then? Justice takes time, brother. You cannot rush it. I don’t see how you can condemn the lady without proof.”
Royce stared open-eyed at his brother. “Proof? You say I have no proof?” He fisted his hand lest he plant it in brother’s face. “You were in the forest. You saw what I saw. How can you say there is no proof?”
“Know you for certain the blood in the forest was Father’s? There was nothing to indicate it. As you pointed out, there were no scraps of cloth, nothing to prove the blood was Father’s.”
Royce ran his hand through his hair, taking a long moment to consider Gyfton’s words.
“I shall send the message, but the lady will be locked away until I receive his response.”
“And how do you think Father would react to his bride being held below?” Gyfton shook his head. “‘Twould be best to simply confine her to the castle.”
“Would that Father could give me his opinion, Gyfton. I fear you cling to a childish wish.” He turned from his brother. “We will do this your way. Though I think it foolish, ’twill take less time and require only one man to deliver the missive.”
* * * * *
Rosard opened his eyes and stared at the shadows dancing on the thatched roof above his head.
Where am I?
Slowly he turned his head and found a huddled form on the floor beside the fire. Covered in black cloth, he could not make out whether ’twas man or woman. He thought mayhap ’twas a woman. A vague memory tugged at his mind and he squinted, trying to bring it into focus.
’Twas the visage of an elderly woman he saw, her wrinkled face shielded by a black shawl. He recalled her croaky voice as she admonished him to drink.
He shifted on the narrow bed and gritted his teeth against the pain.
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