by Tamara Leigh
“The prize,” she said low to determine if it was as offensive to the tongue as its written form was to the eyes.
Far more offensive, further reducing her to chattel—in this case, that of Sir Otto. Her cousin!
“Quintin.”
Gripping the parchment so hard it would forever be creased, she turned to her brother who stood alongside his wife in the solar. A quarter hour earlier, Lady Elianor had glowed. Now she was pale. But as disturbed as she was by the tidings from Emberly, hope was beneath the hand she pressed to the slight bulge below her waist.
Quintin’s remembrance of the comfort of her own hand knowing what the eyes of others were incapable of confirming caused the missive to further protest its abuse.
“Beyond the horror of what Baron Verdun and his wife endured and nearly suffered,” Bayard said, striding forward, “you understand what this could mean, do you not?”
When he halted, she said, “It means I am the perverse hope of the Foucaults. Ah, but if only they knew how false that hope!” As soon as she spoke, a thought struck her, and she caught her breath. “Mother did not reveal to Agatha what her scheming with Constance and Serle de Arell wrought. Had that witch known I am not likely to revive the Foucault line, I would have been of no use, as easily disposed of as were my father and mother.”
“Once again, your mother was protecting you,” Bayard said and took the missive from her. “There is good in this, Quintin. It further evidences the feud was instigated by Foucault supporters. And though two marriages have already been made, the third need not be.”
A laugh parted her lips, and she nearly confessed that what need not be done was done—even before Baron Verdun and Thomasin wed.
“Satisfactory marriages,” she said and looked to his wife. Despite the lady having imprisoned Bayard, regardless of what Quintin had lost that the other woman had gained, Elianor was agreeable.
Though in Quintin’s darkest moments she sometimes wrestled with envy, once she emerged from that darkness, there was happiness in seeing the two together. So quietly—and intensely—in love.
Quintin looked back at her brother. “Very satisfactory marriages,” she reiterated, referring also to what she had witnessed of Magnus Verdun and Lady Thomasin’s marriage when they had traveled to Castle Adderstone a fortnight past.
Naturally, her thoughts returned to Sir Otto, who had been part of the Baron of Emberly’s entourage when, attacked en route to Adderstone, it had prevailed over the brigands. Quintin had exchanged few words with the knight while he was at Adderstone, but she had been glad to see him—dangerously unaware that, as the devil her mother had said walked the corridors of Castle Mathe, he had stood to benefit from that first of two attempts to leave the barony of Emberly bereft of lord and lady.
For what seemed the hundredth time, she regretted the bitterness that had caused her to be curt with Thomasin during that visit. But Griffin’s daughter had been intent on speaking of her father and Quintin had hurt to discuss the man with whom she was incompatible.
“I can petition the king to release you from marriage to Baron de Arell,” Bayard pulled her back to the moment.
Of comfort to him. He loved her too much to see her risk trying to birth babes out of a craven womb. And, unbeknownst to him, there was now more evidence he had good cause to worry—were she capable of conceiving again.
“That is what you want, is it not?” he pressed.
It was not. But she had not dissuaded him from believing her emotions remained tattered over her mother’s death and her belief Griffin bore much of the blame. She missed her mother, but her womb’s rejection of the child made with Griffin was responsible for her continued grieving.
She sighed. “I want what you have, Brother—and, certes, the Baron of Blackwood wishes it as well—but I fear ’tis not possible for me. Indeed, a better use for your sister might be to give the Foucault supporters their prize and bring their line to an end.”
“Do not speak such!”
She winced at her indulgence in self pity. “Forgive me. It but feels dirty that I am a Foucault.”
Bayard grasped her shoulders. “That blood gives you life the same as Boursier blood. And that is all. It does not mean you are responsible for the ill done by those who share it. Indeed, you are more a victim than the rest of us.”
She stepped from beneath his hands. “I am sick unto death of being a victim. And a pawn. Even more distasteful is being made a man’s prize.” Unless, she silently added, that man was one who wanted her as much as she wanted him.
She shook her head. “Woe to any who tries to make me such, for they will not find anything lovely to unwrap, and I might well enjoy proving I am every bit a dirty Foucault.” She skirted her brother and exited the solar.
As she traversed the corridor toward her chamber, the chapel drew her regard. Though tempted to seek Father Crispin’s counsel, it was of an hour he would be abed, allowing one of the two draughts she daily prepared for him to provide relief for the cancer he had finally revealed was the cause of his poor health.
Two months past, the physician had said the priest would not live a month. A month past, he had said Father Crispin would not live a fortnight. A fortnight past, he had asked the man of God to reveal the makings of the draughts.
Though still frail, Father Crispin had himself written down how to prepare the duckweed and honeywine extract prescribed for cancer by Hildegard of Bingen, a long-departed Benedictine abbess, as well as the peppermint and dandelion draught that eased his aching belly. The final ingredient of both he listed as prayer—to which Quintin knew she ought to apply herself now.
She closed herself in her chamber, but her mind, knees, and hands would not settle heavenward. And so she paced the room until she caught her reflection in the corner mirror.
She returned to it. “The prize,” she hissed, resenting that she looked like one. She was not as beautiful as Lady Elianor, but Lady Maeve had passed her comeliness to her daughter, and Archard Boursier had improved upon it by providing Quintin with a strong chin unlike her mother’s slightly recessed one.
Quintin stepped closer to the mirror and considered her eyes—Foucault brown, the same as Sir Otto’s, as she had noted at Castle Mathe. His reaction to her observation had caused her to believe he had taken offense, but fear of exposure had made him walk away.
“My cousin!” she spat, then squeezed her eyes closed and counted her breaths until the flames within sank to their haunches amid the embers.
She opened her eyes, raised them to her dark hair that had grown too long, shifted them to the pale green gown that flattered her figure unlike the black, shapeless garments she had worn her first months following her return to Adderstone. Though this morn she had promised herself she would soon wear the beautiful gown Lady Elianor and Hulda had sewn for her months past—of a shimmering dark blue fabric that called to mind Griffin’s eyes—perhaps she ought to make black her habit again. As for her hair…
She crossed to the bedside table, opened its drawer, and hesitated over the Wulfrith dagger. Months past, she had returned it to Bayard, and he had not rebuked her for taking it. After she confirmed it was the one she had put to Griffin’s throat, he had surprised her by giving it into her care, saying Archard Boursier’s daughter, who had courageously led men against their enemy to rescue her brother, had as much right to it as his son.
Realizing she was smiling, she lifted the dagger out and removed it from its scabbard. Scissors would serve better, providing more control over the cut, but this blade was sharper and would make quick work of the task.
Before the mirror again, she pushed fingers into her hair and drew them out to its ends. But as she moved the blade near, she remembered.
Griffin’s face above hers. Warm breath on her brow. Fingers pressed to her scalp. His attempt to wrap shorn tresses around his hands. Her longing for him to do so.
She lowered the dagger, then her head. “Oh, Griffin, I shall have to tell you. And you will ha
ve to accept that a bedmate and companion is all I will ever be.”
Though, perhaps, acceptance of her failings would not last overly long. If Bayard’s fear for her was realized, Griffin would find himself twice a widower. That or suffer the loss of babe after babe unable to thrive in its mother’s womb.
Were he not already bound to her with vows and consummation, Bayard’s proposal to seek her release from the king’s decree would be best for Griffin so he could make more heirs with another lady. But he was her husband, and the king would wish proof of the final alliance—a public wedding that it was possible the Foucault brigands would try to prevent.
The miscreants would fail, she told herself, just as they had failed to stop the other two alliances. But of course, that would make them all the more desperate to succeed this time.
She dropped to her knees, clasped her hands beneath her chin, and closed her eyes. “Forgive me, Lord, for the wrongs I think…speak…do. Give me strength to accept blame that is my due and right its wrongs.” The words tumbled forth, and she did not heed her aching knees until she was empty but for one final beseeching. “Pray, Lord, do not let my marriage be soaked in blood.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Barony of Blackwood
Summer, 1334
His patience was at an end. He wanted his wife, even if she did not want him.
Quelling the impulse to call for his men to ride, Griffin braced his palms on the table, dropped his head between his shoulders, and breathed long…breathed deep…breathed in Griffin de Arell who was not his father.
“Now think,” he commanded that which always served him well. “Think much. Regret little.”
Which would not be necessary had Boursier and Verdun done the same. Instead, at Boursier’s prompting, Verdun had sent word of Otto’s treachery to King Edward. And this morn, the detestable Sir Francis Cartier had arrived at Castle Kelling to deliver the knight to Edward’s prison for questioning.
Thus, the trap Griffin had been laying was rendered worthless by the loss of its bait. He would have set it sooner if not that Rhys, a quarter of his garrison, and a goodly number of servants had been laid abed by a coughing sickness that had taken the lives of a man of such great age he was no longer capable of walking and a little girl just beginning to walk.
But the ruined trap was not the only reason Griffin urged himself to think before acting. He must consider Boursier’s motive for alerting the king to Otto’s crimes. Based on further evidence the feud between the families was mostly instigated by Foucault brigands, Quintin’s brother wished her released from the decree. Which meant the lady yet held close her secret that the king’s solution to the feud was fully realized.
Griffin pushed off the table and dragged a hand down his face.
As proved by his wife’s silence and the second stay of marriage, she continued to grieve the loss of her mother and blamed the one who had refused to allow her to return to Adderstone. But though she was obviously not eager to claim the role of Lady of Blackwood, neither did he believe she meant to disavow the marriage that made her a De Arell in the eyes of God and Church. Thus, he was fairly certain she was not behind the request to release her from the decree. She might even be unaware of it.
The anger that had been moving toward Quintin pulled back, as it did from her brother. Ignorant of his sister’s marriage, Boursier but tried to do right by her, likely believing her continued grieving and anger toward Griffin warranted intercession. But soon enough, the Baron of Godsmere would relinquish his sister to her husband. As for Sir Otto and the trap from which Cartier had sprung him…
Upon this, Griffin had not thought enough. Hence, he regretted much, the anger flaring anew directed at himself.
Sensing it, Arturo growled as if in sympathetic agreement and slunk out from beneath the table.
Griffin met the dog’s doleful gaze and wondered if the great wolfhound continued to feel Quintin’s absence. That first month following her departure, he had been more temperamental than usual and given to pacing the second floor corridor—ironic considering he would have torn out Quintin’s throat that first day and, when made to watch over the one who had attacked his master, had exuded resentment. But then, the same could be said of Rhys who had grown fond enough of Quintin that several times he had asked with exaggerated indifference when she would return.
“Soon,” Griffin muttered and shifted his thoughts to the trap. Since it would have required the cooperation of the Baron of Emberly to make it work, he had intended to reveal to Verdun his plan to flush out Simon Foucault. However, he had erred in not sooner enlisting his son-in-law’s aid, nor Boursier’s. Had he, Otto would not have been collected by the king’s man and quite possibly freed—or quite possibly killed, depending on whether or not Cartier could wring some use from the knave.
“Live and answer for what you did to my daughter,” he rasped. “Live that you suffer alongside Simon Foucault.”
And that required the construction of a new trap—beginning with arrangements for the ride to Godsmere, a missive sent to the Baron of Emberly, and instructions to Sir Mathieu who would serve as lord in Griffin’s absence. Then a climb up the stairs to give Ulric this day’s tidings.
He is here, was all Quintin could think as she stood before the hearth from which she had turned when the arrival of the Baron of Blackwood and a sizable escort was announced.
Barely breathing, she touched the braid her lengthening hair had allowed her to fashion for the first time in years.
“Lady Quintin?”
She looked to Elianor who had gained her feet, leaving on the bench the bit of gown she embroidered for her unborn babe.
Fearing what brought Griffin to Adderstone without warning and so far into the eve, wondering if it had to do with this day’s tidings that the king’s man had collected Sir Otto, Quintin said, “I shall go as well,” and started across the hall as Bayard strode from it into the torchlit inner bailey.
Though she lifted her skirts and ran, she did not catch up with her brother until she ascended the outer wall’s steps.
“Bayard!” she called as he moved toward the embrasure nearest the gatehouse, beyond which could be heard the restlessness of a great number of armed and mounted men who faced a greater number of Godsmere men gathered on the walls.
Bayard looked over his shoulder, but before he could rebuke her, she said, “You may order me to return to the keep, but I shall remain and know the reason my betrothed is here.”
His singular gaze catching light, he said, “I know why he comes.”
She halted before him. “You speak of the tidings from Emberly?”
“I do not. I speak of the reason—”
“Boursier!” Griffin’s voice sprang over the wall as if he and his men were much nearer than the edge of the great void presented by the raised drawbridge.
Dear Lord, Quintin silently beseeched, I did not realize how much I longed to hear his voice.
She laid a hand on Bayard’s arm. “Of what reason do you speak?”
“That for which Sir Otto came to the king’s attention such that the knave has been taken from Castle Kelling.”
She frowned. There had been no mistaking Bayard’s disquiet over the news from the Baron of Emberly, but there was more to it than believed. “Tell me.”
“I convinced Verdun to send word of Sir Otto’s treachery to King Edward as further proof the feud he tries to remedy is not of our making.”
“And?”
“I asked that you be released from your betrothal to Baron de Arell.”
As he had suggested weeks past and she had believed was forgotten.
“Doubtless, Baron de Arell is now aware of my request. That is why he has come.”
For me, she thought. At last.
Bayard’s hand closed around her arm. “I would not see you sacrificed, especially now there is no gain from a Boursier and De Arell alliance.
Is there not? her selfish side argued.
Certes, t
here is little for Griffin, countered the other side that liked to remind her of what she could not give her husband.
“I wait Boursier!” The anger in Griffin’s voice had sharpened.
Bayard drew Quintin to the wall alongside the embrasure and, denying her a view of Griffin, leaned forward. “Baron de Arell, what do you riding upon my walls in the dark of night?”
“I am here to collect my bride.”
Back pressed to the wall, Quintin quelled the temptation to push a place beside Bayard, who called back, “Your bride? That is premature whilst we await word from the king who may yet decide you are free to wed whomever you please, as is my sister.”
A long silence, then, “If you do not yield what belongs to me, Boursier, another feud there shall be, and this one born not of Foucault treachery.”
“You have no claim on Lady Quintin.”
“Do I not?”
She caught her breath. Did he mean to reveal their marriage?
“What say you, De Arell?” Bayard demanded.
“As the king has decreed our families ally, your sister is promised to me. Hence, my claim upon her.”
“You err. Until she speaks vows, she belongs to no man.”
“Lady Quintin!” Griffin called.
He but guessed she was near. Her exchange with Bayard had been low and, since her brother had shown himself, he had not glanced at her. Now, out of sight of those beneath his walls, he raised a hand to her, directing her to remain unseen.
She stepped alongside him.
“Quintin!” he snarled.
But her attention was on the man illuminated by the torches his arrival had caused to be lit upon the walls—as his attention was on her.
Then Griffin smiled that crooked smile, and her heart jolted so hard she felt as if punched in the chest. “It seems our roles are reversed, my lady. This time, ’tis I who demands entrance to your walls. You who shall grant my desire.”
Desire. Did he intentionally choose a word that made her shudder in remembrance of their one night together?