by Tamara Leigh
“First the former, then the latter. Regardless that Sir Otto sought to revive the Foucault line by taking his cousin to wife, regardless of the king’s answer to your missive, in the eyes of God and Church, your sister and I are wed.”
Bayard held his offensive stance so long Quintin was thankful her husband was not one to behave rashly. At last, her brother lowered his blade. “Wed in secret. For what?”
Quintin started forward, but Griffin tightened his grip.
And when Lady Elianor moved as if to gain her husband’s side, Bayard rumbled, “Stay where you are, Wife,” then repeated, “For what, Baron?”
“Your sister tried to save you again by proposing I wed her ere a determination was made about your marriage—a show of support she believed would more likely move the king to decide in your favor. However, as I did not believe it would be of any more aid than that which I had already given, I saw no reason to tempt Edward’s wrath.”
“But still you wed her.”
“For other reasons, the first being I wished her for my wife and feared that if the king declared your lands forfeit, eliminating the need for an alliance between our families, he would wed your sister elsewhere. In that event, I would have revealed a much too eager groom and bride had chosen to wed rather than sin.”
Griffin’s choice of words eased Quintin’s fear, but only for a moment. Bayard’s sword remained unsheathed.
“What other reason?” her brother demanded.
Griffin put his head to the side, reminding her of that first day when, looking down upon her from atop his wall, he had assessed the threat her entourage presented.
With what sounded like a smile in his voice, he said, “You will not like this, Boursier.”
“Thus, my blade keeps close company with my sword arm.”
“In addition to wanting Lady Quintin as my wife, it occurred that were Godsmere and Emberly forfeited, the king could be moved to award the lands to the family originally promised the whole of Kilbourne. And were that not enough, my claim on them would be strengthened by marriage to one believed to be the last hope for the Foucault line.”
Bayard considered that, then said, “You cannot have been pleased the king accepted my marriage to Lady Elianor.”
Griffin grunted. “Think, Boursier! Were I set on gaining your lands, why would I provide you the solution of consummation? Why would I bear witness it was Lady Elianor’s deception that caused you to miss the appointed day by which you were to wed?”
Bayard stared.
“Forsooth, I was not averse to enlarging my holdings. What man would be? But who better to gain them than one willing to give your sister and her mother a home?” He raised his eyebrows. “Or would you have preferred that, in addition to the king awarding Godsmere and Emberly to a favorite—mayhap his man, Sir Francis—he awarded your sister?”
“What he speaks is true,” Quintin said.
Bayard looked to her. “And yet only now you wish to take your place as Lady of Blackwood?”
“I…” She pressed her lips for fear revelation would pour past them. She could not tell him the reason for her prolonged grieving. Far better he believe her incapable of conceiving than know that what his blade had wrought had caused her to lose a child. Too much guilt. Too much pain.
“I have been stubborn and grudging, as you know I can be,” she finally said, “but now I would wed before all and accompany my husband home to Castle Mathe.” It was with intention she claimed Griffin’s home as her own, and she was pleased to see a softening about Bayard’s face.
“As soon as Father Crispin is well enough to perform the ceremony,” she continued, “I would have it done.” After she spoke it, it struck her that the beloved priest would then have presided over all three marriages. There was something very right about that.
Her brother nodded and slid his sword into its scabbard. “’Twill be done. But until then, De Arell, you will not enter my sister’s chamber lest one outside the five of us bears witness and sets tongues to wagging.”
Griffin inclined his head. “Then all the sooner we must see your priest risen from his bed.”
“Indeed.”
Griffin released Quintin. When he turned, she saw Bayard’s sword had drawn blood from her husband’s throat. But it was not as deep as the cut she had made there last Christmas, presenting as a thin crimson line.
“You will have to remove the ring,” Griffin said.
She glanced at it and, assuring herself it would not be long ere it was forever on her hand, nodded.
“I shall meet you belowstairs, my lady,” he said.
She inclined her head, and as he turned away, she noted the missive beneath his belt, the contents of which she prayed her brother would never know.
Her husband strode across the chamber, and Bayard stepped aside to allow him to pass.
Upon hearing Griffin’s chamber door close, Quintin said, “Now you know what goes between us, Bayard.”
“You should have told me sooner.” He momentarily closed his eyes. “Had De Arell a sword upon him, I do not know I would have hesitated to engage him and… Almighty! You would have set yourself between us.”
“I did not think—”
“As you did not five years ago!” He splayed his hands as if the fists made of them ached, shook his head. “Forgive me. I am to fault for that.”
“You are not.”
His gaze lowered, and realizing she had once more put a fist to her abdomen, she dropped it to her side.
“Does he know?” Bayard asked.
Tears sprang to her eyes. “He knows.”
“And?”
“Still he came for me. Still he would pass his life with me.” She gave a short laugh that did not taste or sound as bitter as once it had. “He has his heir, Bayard. ’Tis a wife he wants. Me.”
“He knows ’twas my blade?”
“Aye, and as I do not hold you responsible, neither does he.”
With a glance at Lady Elianor and Hulda, Quintin crossed the room and put her arms around him. “My husband is a good man.”
“I pray ’tis so, otherwise I will do worse than score his throat.”
She leaned back. “’Tis so.”
His jaw shifted. “If he… If you…”
She knew his worry—that which had made him seek to release her from marriage. “He says he will not risk getting me with child, that there are ways to…” Her face flushed.
As did Bayard’s. “I am pleased you are happy with him,” he muttered.
“Quite. And I am sorry I did not sooner reveal all. These months have been difficult.”
He kissed her forehead. “I know.”
But he did not know all. And that was as she would have it.
He drew back. “I shall let you make ready for the day.” He turned to his wife. “Elianor?”
“I will aid Hulda with your sister, then join you at meal.”
He nodded and closed the door behind him.
There was something Elianor wished to say, Quintin sensed, and it was more than the words she spoke minutes later as she tightened the laces on one side of her sister-in-law’s gown while Hulda tugged on the right.
“It seems,” she murmured, “that if you do not already have with Baron de Arell what I have with your brother, you will be blessed with a good semblance of it.”
And it made the lady happy, Quintin knew. “I did not expect to feel this way about any man, especially Griffin de Arell.”
Elianor laughed. “Oh, what surprises God had for the three ladies of the baronies—and their lords. Love.”
“I did not say I love Baron de Arell,” Quintin said sharply.
The lady came around. “Only you can know how much you feel for your husband, but I wager you now walk a path that runs in the same direction as the one I traversed when your brother set aside my trespasses to soothe away my past.”
Recalling what Griffin had believed of the lady, Quintin said, “Your first marriage was horrid, aye?
”
Her lashes fluttered, mouth trembled. “Such that I often cease whatever I am occupied with that I might look near upon my surroundings to be certain they do not waver as they would in a dream from which I might awaken to find myself returned to the nightmare.”
Quintin glanced at Hulda who, having secured the other laces, had taken a step back and now looked between the ladies.
Satisfied Elianor was comfortable conversing in the maid’s presence, Quintin said, “I am sorry for what you suffered, Elianor.”
“I would not wish it again, but where I am now with Bayard is surely because of where I was without him, and so I try not to begrudge my past and instead look upon it as the terribly steep mountain I had to climb ere I could begin to make my way into the beautiful valley on the other side.” Eyes tearing, she turned aside. “Come sit. Hulda and I will plait your hair.”
Quintin lowered onto the bench before her dressing table, and once more the women each took a side of her. “I thank you for making my brother happy,” she said as she stared into the mirror on the table. “Certes, he was not ere you came.”
“And I thank you.” Lady Elianor paused halfway down the braid that would just barely drape Quintin’s shoulder. “For not telling Bayard.”
“For not—?” Quintin snapped her gaze to Hulda, whose face reflected surprise.
“As much as I do not wish to be right in this,” Bayard’s wife said softly, “it would explain much. Am I right?”
Quintin swallowed. “You are.”
“Oh,” the lady breathed, “I am sorry.”
Her sympathy stirring up more tears, Quintin said, “When did you know?”
Elianor took up the braid again. “It first occurred you were with child when I noticed how often your hand was on your belly—the most natural response when a woman knows she carries life. However, I reasoned away my suspicion, reminding myself Baron de Arell and you were but betrothed and telling myself your hand there was because of the injury done you—that something made you think on it. It occurred to me again when, your grieving for your mother having eased, of a sudden it returned, and I noted you no longer pressed a hand to your belly. ’Twas a fist instead.”
“Then you knew I had lost our babe?”
“Nay, once more I believed I guessed wrong. Thus, I did not know until this morn when I learned you are wed, your marriage consummated, and I saw your reaction when it was revealed Hulda knew of your marriage.” She sighed. “I ache for your loss. And as told, I am grateful that with the scent of blood on the air, this day you did not reveal it to your brother.”
“I would not have you tell him.”
“Of course not. ’Tis for you or your husband to reveal.”
“Never,” Quintin said firmly, then peered into the mirror and wished for the customary veil upon her hair that signified she was no longer available to wed.
Soon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Two days passed before the Baron of Emberly and his bride rode upon Castle Adderstone. Their escort, numbering two score strong, evidenced that just as Griffin and Bayard did not believe Sir Otto’s departure for the king’s prison ended the Foucault threat, neither did Verdun. And as would soon be learned, the Baron of Emberly had more cause to suspect the danger was far from past.
Though Griffin insisted his wife stand at his side to receive the Verduns, when he strode forward to greet his daughter, whom he had not seen since giving her in marriage at Castle Kelling, Quintin remained at the steps and clasped her hands hard in remembrance of how aloof she had been when last Thomasin was at Adderstone. Quintin had hurt one who had not known of the loss that made it difficult to be reminded of Griffin.
“My lady.”
She looked to her husband, who had halted halfway between his daughter and her to reach a hand behind, then glanced to where Verdun had lifted his petite bride from her horse and had yet to release her. Returning her gaze to Griffin, Quintin reluctantly stepped forward and slid her hand into his.
He leaned near. “She is also your daughter,” he said, and for a moment she was angered that he pressed on her something she was not ready for. But he meant well, and when Thomasin hastened forward and threw her arms around him, Quintin realized how alone she would have felt had he let her be.
Their embrace was long, Thomasin laughing and chattering and pecking kisses on his cheek, Griffin chuckling and twice lifting her off her feet. Then, with a contented sigh, Thomasin moved out of her father’s arms and stepped before Quintin.
“Another wedding we shall have, aye?” She radiated such hope—and forgiveness—all Quintin could do was nod.
“Soon we shall be kin!” Thomasin took a chance only she would take, putting her arms around Quintin and, when the gesture was not spurned, hugging the breath from her. “Methinks ’tis more than wishes to kiss the Baron of Blackwood that finds you at his side,” she said low.
Quintin nearly laughed. “Far more,” she allowed and looked forward to sharing with the young woman that already they were kin.
Thomasin drew back. “Though the black yet hangs over us, I am so happy I can barely behave the lady.”
Quintin raised her eyebrows. “Thomasin de Arell Verdun, you have only to be yourself to be adored.”
The young woman beamed, then shifted her gaze to the two who approached. “Oh, have mercy! ’Tis she who made The Boursier believe plain could be so beautiful.”
Lady Elianor and Thomasin embraced and laughed over little words exchanged, then arm in arm ascended the steps whilst the three barons, all in one place for the first time, greeted one another with less enthusiasm. But they were men, and they seemed genuine enough that Quintin started after her sister-in-law and stepdaughter.
“I thank you for receiving us so well, Baron Boursier,” Verdun said low. “Unfortunately, I bear ill tidings.”
Though foreboding pierced Quintin, her feet did not falter. She knew the Foucault threat was not past, but perhaps it was nearer than believed. Did Thomasin know the tidings her husband would share with Griffin and Bayard? If so, Quintin would soon know them as well.
It was told he was dead, that he had met his end during the journey to the king’s prison when his escort was attacked.
Though the brigands had succeeded in freeing Otto, Sir Francis had given chase, and one of his men had overtaken the knight and engaged him at swords. Surrounded by brigands, the mercenary’s man had sustained a fatal blow—but not before spilling his prey’s innards. Thus, the end of Sir Otto.
Rather, the presumed end, the knight’s mount having fled with its dying rider fallen over its neck.
“Convenient,” Griffin said when Verdun finished delivering the tidings received prior to his departure from Castle Kelling.
“Indeed.” Verdun nodded. “If Sir Francis is Simon Foucault as your missive told, he has eliminated the possibility of exposure.”
“You do not believe the two are the same?”
“On the contrary. Though we gained little from Otto during his imprisonment at Kelling, the man-at-arms who aided him in seeking to murder Thomasin and me revealed ere his own death that the Foucault uprising was led by Aude and her man. He said we would not know that man’s face, but we would know his name. And so we do, and now Simon Foucault’s son runs with the brigands.”
“That,” said Boursier where he stood before the open window, his back to his allies, “else dead by means other than those recounted for the king. Otto failed his father, and as a much-informed witness who could be broken by Edward’s interrogator, he may have been deemed throwaway. Regardless, ’tis further proof Simon disguises himself as Sir Francis Cartier.”
Pleased the Baron of Godsmere thought much, Griffin looked to his son-in-law. Did the youngest of them think well behind his inscrutable face? A face that, despite the circumstances uniting the three the same as their fathers had united a quarter of a century ago, was nearly absent the facial tics for which he was known?
Thomasin, Griffin concl
uded. His impetuous, perilously improper daughter was good for Magnus Verdun. Though the baron might not hold his wife in great affection, he liked her well. That Griffin had concluded when Verdun had lifted her from the saddle before Adderstone’s keep and lingered over her, returned her whispers, and smiled wide enough to show teeth when she bounced to her toes and touched her mouth to his.
“Better Otto dead,” Verdun said, “but until I see his corpse, I will not render my wife or people vulnerable by believing it.” He pushed off the table he had leaned against since entering the solar. Throughout, he had stood an arm’s reach from Griffin, allowing only a glimpse of amusement when told of the secret marriage. But his feelings had become more readable with the delivery of his own revelation about Otto’s supposed death, so deeply grooving his face he appeared older.
“So it comes to a head,” he said. “For Cartier, a desperate head. God willing, his successes in furthering the feud all these years will make his recent failures cause him to act rashly.”
More and more liking his son-in-law, Griffin reached to the platter at the center of the table and retrieved an apple. He took a bite, and the crunch turned Boursier from the window and caused Verdun to peer over his shoulder.
Griffin swallowed. “The hours between dinner and supper are long.” He nodded at the platter Lady Elianor had ordered delivered to the solar. “Join me.”
Shortly, all three were seated and devastation of the viands began in earnest.
It was Verdun who returned them to Sir Francis. “We require bait.” He flicked crumbs from his fingers. “I have a proposal. However, ’tis one I do not believe either of you will like.”
There being only one whom Boursier and Griffin had in common that neither would risk, Griffin growled, “Think again. And not anywhere near my wife.”
“Stay away from my sister, Verdun,” Boursier snarled.
The Baron of Emberly looked between them. “I would feel the same about my wife and niece, but neither qualifies now both are wed and, thus, so far out of Cartier’s reach their only value lies in death. And as told by Otto, Lady Quintin is the prize—whether his or his father’s, meaning she is in less danger—”