by Tamara Leigh
“Worry not, Daughter. All will come right.” He released her. “And now I must prepare to ride to Adderstone.”
“But she does not wish your escort.”
“Still, ’tis my duty.” Foremost as Quintin’s husband, he silently added and strode away.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Guilt-spawned anger, Quintin acknowledged what his daughter, for all of her youth, had known. It had made her turn on the man who might bear some of the blame, but not as much as she. Blessedly, there was some comfort in knowing that, regardless of what illness had stolen her mother, it would likely have done its thieving even had Quintin been present.
Draped in her fur-lined mantle, riding behind Griffin who had added a dozen knights to her escort, Quintin longed to apologize to her husband. And yet she was still angry with him though it was more her fault. He had wanted to postpone consummation, and what further excuse could he have given, having honored Bayard’s wishes that he be the one to reveal her mother’s death?
Dear Lord, she silently prayed and looked to the sky that would be black by the time they reached Adderstone. Ease this anger and longing to cast upon Griffin guilt not due him. Humble this pride so I might make my regret known. Let him forgive me so I am not alone with my grieving.
That last was selfish, but he had vowed, just as she had, to be with her for better and worse. Thus, she wanted his arms around her when she lay down in her chamber beside her mother’s barren chamber.
She lowered her gaze to Griffin’s back that was so tall and broad it looked capable of bearing burdens that would bend and break the backs of other men.
Here, Lady, is your husband, the priest had said. Here, Lord, is your wife. Love each other as our Heavenly Father loves you.
Quintin tapped her horse’s sides, urging the animal to greater speed.
As if Griffin sensed her advance, he looked around and, meeting her gaze, slowed his destrier and raised an arm to command the others to ease back.
“My lady?” he said when she drew alongside.
“My lord.”
He raised an eyebrow.
She moistened her lips. “’Twas ill of me to say what I did. Lady Thomasin is right. I am more responsible for not being at my mother’s side.”
It would hardly be appropriate for Griffin to give her a half-hitched smile, but she would not have been offended had he, she so longed to see it. But he stared at her.
“Pray, forgive me,” she beseeched.
He glanced at the others, who had fallen back to allow them privacy. “I fear you will regret seeking my forgiveness, Quintin.”
“I do not see how.”
He grunted. “Unfortunately, there is more to the tale besides your mother’s passing.”
She sat straighter. “What?”
“Again, the Baron of Godsmere binds my tongue, but we are not long from Adderstone. You will know soon enough.”
“You frighten me.”
“I do not mean to. I but prepare my wife as best I can.”
She hesitated, then reached to him, uncaring what any thought of the intimacy she sought that was hardly intimacy compared to the wondrous things learned in the nuptial bed.
Griffin closed his fingers around her gloved hand. “You wear it, do you not, Quintin?”
Then he believed it possible she had cast off his ring. “It lies above my heart.”
A corner of his mouth convulsed, but still no smile. “Promise that no matter how this day ends, until my ring can be displayed on your finger, you will keep it on your person.”
“You have my word. And my thanks.”
“For?”
“The return of my dagger and knife.”
He inclined his head. “I hoped that would please you.”
“It does, though…”
“Aye?”
“I have become fond of you cutting my meat.”
There, a smile, albeit slight. “Have you, indeed?”
“I have.”
“I would be honored.” He glanced behind. “And now, with regret, we must resume our pace to reach our destination ere night grows long. Will you ride at my side?”
“I shall.”
“Then to Adderstone.”
And what he told—and she tried not to think upon—was more to the tale.
Grim. There was no kinder word to describe their reception. As was fitting, Castle Adderstone was in mourning, the sorrow and pity coming off the castle folk who stood on the walls and walked the baileys nearly suffocating.
Grim even better described the Baron of Godsmere’s expression as Sir Victor, having dismounted ahead of the others to draw his lord aside, revealed Quintin’s knowledge of the reason her mother was not on the keep’s steps.
Thus, Lady Elianor was the first to greet Quintin. “’Tis good you are home, Lady Quintin,” she said with a smile so small the torchlit bailey nearly rendered it flat.
“’Tis unfortunate it is under such circumstances I return.”
As the lady’s eyes widened, doubtless in alarm that Lady Maeve’s passing was known, Quintin’s anger stirred. More than Griffin, this woman was responsible for her absence from Adderstone. Had Lady Elianor not abducted Bayard, there would have been no ride on Castle Mathe and no reason to leave Lady Maeve behind.
The gentle squeeze of Griffin’s hand on Quintin’s arm reminded her of his intercession when Bayard and Lady Elianor were properly wed. Griffin had urged her to sheathe her claws for her brother’s sake. So she must again—for Bayard’s sake and, perhaps, his wife’s considering what Griffin believed had caused her to work ill on the Baron of Godsmere.
Quintin drew a deep breath. “Still, ’tis good to be at Adderstone.”
The lady inclined her head. “I am sorry for your loss.”
Quintin could only nod.
“And you, Baron de Arell, are welcome at Adderstone.”
“I thank you, my lady.”
Lady Elianor’s eyes lowered to Griffin’s hand on Quintin’s arm, and her mouth curved a bit more. Though her note of his close attendance was disconcerting, it was not enough to cause Quintin to pull away.
Bayard strode forward. He could appear barbarous owing to the eyepatch and his size, but in the midst of night and wearing a grim expression, he seemed more so.
“I am sorry, Quintin,” he said and took her into his arms. “Dear Lord, so sorry.”
She clung to him, and he let her be the one to draw back. When she did, he said, “You are tired and hungry. Let us see to your needs.”
She thought it would be on his arm she once more entered the great hall, but as was his duty to his wife, he turned to Lady Elianor and led her up to the keep.
But Quintin had Griffin, who also knew his duty and aided her ascent of the steps.
“First, food and drink,” Bayard said as Lady Elianor and he entered the hall ahead of them.
Then the chapel, Quintin thought and was grateful Griffin’s grip allowed her to arrest the impulse to fly to that place where her mother awaited their reunion. Considering what lay ahead, it would behoove Quintin to first wet her dry mouth and put something in her belly.
Upon the dais, Griffin assisted Quintin with the removal of her mantle. As he handed her into the chair beside the lord’s high seat, she saw her brother similarly attended Lady Elianor—and was surprised to see what was beneath the lady’s mantle. Her arm was in a sling, and when Quintin looked upon the lady’s face that was better lit inside the hall, she saw fatigue amid scratches. And was that a bruise on her cheek?
Bayard put his mouth to his wife’s ear, said something that made her smile softly, then settled between his wife and sister.
“As told, there is more to the tale,” Griffin murmured, and she was comforted that he had taken the chair on her opposite side.
She looked back at her brother and, finding his singular gaze awaited hers, leaned near. “Though I know Lady Elianor’s injuries were not dealt by you,” she whispered, “are they a result of further plott
ing against you?”
“Nay, all is well with my wife and me.”
So it appeared, but it was so unexpected considering the circumstances of their marriage that Quintin said, “I find that hard to believe.”
His mouth curved. “As do I, but ’tis so.”
Though she could not yet think kindly of Lady Elianor, after what Griffin had surmised of the woman’s first marriage, it was impossible to dislike her as much as before. And she did hope all was well between Bayard and his wife. He deserved happiness and, perhaps, Lady Elianor was also due it.
Wine was poured ahead of the arrival of platters of bread and cheeses, but Quintin had taken only two swallows of drink and a bite of bread before a woman rushed off the stairs and cried, “My poor lamb!”
Barely recognizable with her hair a mess, eyes swollen and face flushed, it was her voice that revealed it was Lady Maeve’s maid.
Bayard surged to his feet. “Return abovestairs, Hulda.”
The woman’s step faltered, but she continued toward Quintin. “’Twas murder that took your lady mother!”
Murder. As that word seeped into Quintin’s emotions, the cracks of which were too recently repaired by her apology to Griffin, Bayard sprang over the table. One of his size should not be able to do so with grace, but he made it appear effortless and intercepted Hulda before she reached the dais.
“You vowed you would not leave your mistress’s side,” he gently rebuked as he turned her toward the man coming off the stairs—Father Crispin, who had wed Bayard and Lady Elianor at Castle Mathe. A gray cast to the priest’s face evidencing he was ill of health as he was often of late, he put an arm around Hulda.
“But my lord,” she bemoaned as she was urged opposite, “my poor lamb is home.” She peered over her shoulder at Quintin. “You should not have left your mother. How she ached for you. And now…”
When she disappeared, Quintin stood. “Say ’twas not murder, Bayard. Tell me Hulda is but mad with grief.”
He did not—instead ordered all but her, Griffin, and Lady Elianor to ease their hunger and thirst in the kitchen. “Sit, Quintin,” he said upon his return to the dais.
Ignoring him, she moved her gaze to her husband and hated that his face was as grim as Bayard’s. “This is more to the tale?” she demanded.
His nod was weary.
Though tempted to voice her anger, she had prayed she would not further punish Griffin for things not of his doing. And so she said, “Surely you could have better prepared your…” She had nearly named herself his wife, and though she was now tempted to name herself his prisoner, she said, “You could have better prepared your betrothed.”
Bayard touched her shoulder. “I would have had this wait until you were rested, but since my wishes are once more ground underfoot, I bid you sit so I may explain.”
She lowered into the chair.
“Over a sennight past,” he said as he regained his seat, “Agatha escaped the underground. Upon encountering my wife, she threw her down the steps and left her for dead. Blessedly, the worst Lady Elianor suffered was a broken arm.”
Quintin glanced at the lady. “Why would Agatha harm the one she aided in imprisoning you?”
“She was not the ally Lady Elianor believed, but we will speak more on that momentarily.”
“Then tell me who released Agatha.”
He drew a deep breath that made her hold hers. “Lady Maeve.”
Quintin was on her feet again. “Your wife released that vile being! She but puts the blame on my mother. And you…” She pointed at her brother. “Once more you are under a woman’s spell, just as whilst you were wed to the faithless Constance Verdun. Thus, you prefer to believe the one who betrayed is the woman who raised you as if you were her own.”
“Nay, Quintin, when I confronted Lady Maeve, she admitted to releasing Agatha.”
Quintin blinked. “It cannot be. My mother hated that witch for the aid she gave Constance in making a cuckold of you.”
“Aye, she loathed Agatha, and all the more because the witch controlled her.”
“How? And why?”
“Your mother believed their alliance was the only way to keep you safe.”
“What say you?”
“Whilst Agatha served as Constance’s maid at Adderstone—ere I ousted her for drugging my wine—she killed our father.”
Quintin’s legs weakening, she yielded to Griffin’s hands on her shoulders easing her down. As he resumed his own seat, she reached to him and he enfolded her hand in his.
Looking back at Bayard, she saw he noted the intimacy between Griffin and her, just as Lady Elianor had earlier. “Continue,” she said.
“Your mother suspected Agatha was responsible for Archard’s death and confronted her. The witch admitted she had hastened his passing and threatened that unless Lady Maeve did her bidding, she would end your life as well. Thus, though I cannot know what your mother did for Agatha all these years, she served her.”
A pounding behind her eyes, Quintin narrowed her lids. “For what does Agatha hate us so?”
“Lady Maeve said Agatha did ill in the name of the Foucaults—aiding in cuckolding me, imprisoning me, and setting our families against one another.”
Movement beside Quintin drew her gaze to Griffin, and she saw from the lean of his body and intensity of his gaze he turned all this over.
“She seeks revenge, Bayard?” she asked.
“Aye. More, your mother believed she and others sought to restore the barony of Kilbourne by tearing our families asunder.”
“What others?”
“Lady Maeve believed there is at least one Foucault supporter at Castle Mathe.”
Feeling Griffin’s hand tense, Quintin recalled the day she had prepared to go in search of her missing brother and her mother had begged her not to leave. Lady Maeve had said her daughter was not safe at Castle Mathe, and when she had warned the devil walked its corridors, Quintin had thought she referred to Ulric de Arell. But surely he was not a Foucault supporter.
“Agatha is a Foucault?” Quintin’s voice trembled.
“Your mother would tell no more. She said your safety depended on her silence. However, she said that if I brought you home, she would reveal all she knew of Agatha and the others. Thus, I agreed to ride for you the next morn.”
“But then found her dead.”
He nodded. “The night before, she was so anxious I sent the physician to her. He assured me that though her heart troubled her as oft it did when she was overwrought, she but required a draught to help her sleep. The next morn, ere I departed for Mathe, Hulda discovered your mother had passed.”
“And says she was murdered.”
“There being no sign of struggle, it was thought her heart failed, but I did have doubts. Alive, she would have been of detriment to those whose tale she meant to reveal. Dead, she would take her secrets to the grave. Keeping my word to her, I left Adderstone to bring you home, but as I neared Mathe, I met Lady Thomasin in the wood and our talk moved to a friend of hers named Aude.”
Quintin gasped. She had first heard that name the day greenery had been gathered to decorate the hall for Christmas and Thomasin had been certain she had seen her friend inside the castle walls.
“What is it, Quintin?”
She shook her head. “Continue.”
“I suspected Lady Thomasin’s Aude was our Agatha, and when Baron de Arell’s daughter yielded up the location of the woman’s hovel on the lake where our three baronies converge, I turned back in hopes of capturing her.”
“Is she the same?”
“She was.”
Quintin frowned over her brother speaking of the woman as if she were of the past. “You found her?”
“Aye, and she had my wife with her.”
Quintin snapped her gaze to Lady Elianor, who inclined her head.
“After I departed for Castle Mathe, the entire household was drugged and my wife taken to the lake so Agatha could question her about
what your mother revealed ere her death.”
Quintin shivered. “Then ’tis true my mother was murdered. By Agatha.”
“Murdered, aye, but Agatha told my wife it was another who took Lady Maeve’s life. And Elianor thinks the man she heard conversing with Agatha outside the hovel may be the one who did the deed.”
The deed. As if the taking of life was an achievement.
“Agatha said it amused her to work ill on our families, ensuring discord between those who had betrayed Denis Foucault. When she tried to end my wife’s life, Elianor set the hovel aflame and escaped into the night as my men and I rode on it. By the fire’s glow I saw her run from Agatha onto the frozen lake. Agatha tried to break the ice to send Elianor into a watery grave, and failing that, followed. It was her weight that broke the ice, she who went down into the freezing water. The experience was hellish. Thus, I had to deliver Elianor home ere coming for you.”
Quintin lowered her chin. Though it was unlikely she could have saved her mother had an ill heart stolen her away, had she done her daughter’s duty, she might have prevented Lady Maeve’s murder.
Do not think there, she told herself as tears fell, for there is Griffin where you would not have him be.
Because I am selfish, she countered. Just as I preferred to remain at Castle Mathe with him rather than be burdened by my mother’s needs, I would absolve both of us of wrongdoing.
She felt a squeeze on her fingers and knew her husband sought to comfort her. She who had no right to be comforted, and certainly not by one who—
Once more, she turned from casting blame on him.
“Quintin.” He lifted her chin.
Longing to go into the arms she had allowed to replace her mother’s, she said, “Selfish. Little thought I gave her these past days, thinking only of what I wanted. Not what she wanted—and needed.”
“Quintin—”
“I cannot make it right.” She pressed a hand to her chest, groped upward, and gripped the chain about her neck. “Cannot undo what might not have been done had I—”