by Hendee, Barb
“At least she does not lie beneath me like a motionless bag of sticks!” Thomas roared back.
“She is a churl’s daughter who was nothing but my washer-woman!”
Robert started slightly as the truth sank in. Lord Thomas had purchased Bess Holland a house of her own and had set her up as a mistress—and he had done so publicly.
“How could you? How could you stain our family name like this?” Elizabeth was sobbing now. “You will give her up. I demand you to give her up!”
“You demand—?”
His sentence was cut off by loud crashing sound, and Robert stepped up to the door, not caring if he was seen. Lady Elizabeth was on the floor with her mouth bleeding. Thomas reached down, jerked her back up to her feet, and struck her again. She fell back against a small table, and he kicked her.
The nurse pulled both of the children closer and covered their eyes.
Thomas hit his wife over and over again until she was unconscious and lying in a bleeding heap on the floor.
Robert just stood there in the doorway. He could not interfere. But something inside of him snapped, and he knew he could not stay in this house.
Though Thomas was panting, his rage finally seemed spent. He glanced at the nurse and his children and then strode out the door, stopping in brief surprise at the sight of Robert just outside in the hallway.
“I heard shouting, my lord,” Robert said instantly. “I feared for your safety.”
Thomas said nothing. He didn’t even order Robert to fetch help for Lady Elizabeth. He just brushed past and headed for the stairs.
Robert ran into the room, kneeling by Elizabeth and calling to the nurse. “Go get help! Run and find young Francis on watch out front. Tell him to break off one of the house doors and bring it up. Then send for a physician.” He paused. “And get the children out of here!”
Relieved at the sight of him taking charge, she shooed the children out, and he knelt there, alone, with Lady Elizabeth. She was still breathing, but she looked so broken that he feared even touching her without some assistance, and he did not want to try carrying her in his arms. After battles, he’d seen wounded men hurt worse if their backs or necks were already injured when someone tried to pick them up.
A commotion sounded downstairs as people burst into action, and all he could do was wait for his guardsman, Francis, to hurry upstairs with the doctor.
Lady Elizabeth recovered slowly, but word of Lord Thomas’ brutal actions—and the reason for the dispute—spread quickly. Striking one’s wife, even beating her, was not uncommon for men of his station. But beating her with his fists and feet into an unconscious state was . . . unseemly at best.
The third Duke of Norfolk decided to go back to court and continue his fight in the political arena. Robert requested to stay behind—and his request was granted. Thomas could barely look at him after the scene in the nursery.
Robert was determined to change his service and yet the prospect filled him with sorrow. He had served this house since he was eighteen. He was trusted here. The thought of starting over with a new lord seemed overwhelming. And as of yet, he could not leave Lady Elizabeth in her current state.
So he stayed.
With the duke gone and Bess Holland gone, the mood of the household improved somewhat. But as Elizabeth recovered physically, she appeared to deteriorate mentally, and she was sometimes seen whispering to herself.
Robert saw this himself one day, when she was out in the gardens with her mouth moving rapidly, but no one stood nearby. Her ribs had healed and she no longer bent over when she walked, but he believed she would keep the small scar on her upper lip.
Against all his training and belief in propriety, he walked up to her. “Are you well, my lady?”
She jumped at his voice and squinted as if not recognizing him for a moment. “Oh, Robert . . . yes, I am well. Even better soon. All will be well soon.”
She walked down the path, her lips quiet and still now.
Better soon? What had she meant?
The trio arrived several nights later—hours after darkness had fallen and long past when respectable guests might come calling.
Robert was in the kitchen, drinking a mug of ale before starting his final rounds, when young Francis stuck his head in the door.
“Sir?” he said.
“What is it?” Robert stood up.
“You’d better come.”
Robert followed to the great dining hall, where he found three figures illuminated by a burning candle: two men and a woman. The men were dressed like ruffians in baggy trousers and loose soiled shirts, their hair lank and greasy. They wore cutlass-styled blades on their belts. But he glanced at the men only briefly before his gaze fell upon the woman . . . perhaps only a girl? And he stopped walking.
The moment he entered, she turned and stared at him with large black eyes—true black like her wild hair. She looked maybe nineteen years old, with the pale, glowing skin of someone who seldom went outdoors. Her nose was small, and her mouth was heart-shaped. She wore a burgundy skirt and white blouse with a thin vestment over the top, laced up tightly. She was slender and her hips were narrow, yet the tops of her breasts swelled above the laced vest. Gold rings dangled from her ears, and bracelets clinked on her wrists.
Robert had seen gypsies before, but not one like her. When she turned to look at him, the top of her blouse slipped slightly, exposing her fine-boned shoulder, and he was hit by a rush of physical desire stronger than anything he’d ever felt before. His mind filled with images of her lying beneath him, clawing at his back.
He drew in a breath, cursing himself, and straightened, pushing the images away.
“What are you doing in here?” he demanded.
“We have business with your lady,” the young woman answered.
“I don’t think so,” he answered.
Such rabble had no business with Lady Elizabeth. How had they gotten this far into the house? He’d have Francis on night watch for a month.
“Are they here?” a breathy voice called from the entryway outside, near the bottom of the stairs.
To his surprise, Lady Elizabeth nearly ran into the dining hall. She wore no headpiece, and strands of her hair fell about her face, sticking to her chin. She was holding her skirt off the floor. Robert had never seen her in such an undignified state.
“Oh . . .” she breathed at the sight of the strangers. Motioning toward a back room where the duke sometimes held intimate conferences with other lords, she said, “Quickly, in there.”
“My lady?” Robert asked in confusion. Had Elizabeth indeed called for these . . . people?
She ignored him and hurried past, moving toward the strangers.
The girl was still staring at Robert, almost as if she knew him. Though shaken by his own reaction to her, he had no intention of allowing Elizabeth to take these three into a back room alone. The men looked like thieves or lowborn assassins—or both.
He walked after his lady, gripping the hilt of sword.
She held up one hand. “Wait out here,” she ordered.
He couldn’t believe what was happening. Elizabeth had never deigned to look at such people, much less speak to them.
“My lady?” he repeated, uncertain what to do.
But she ushered all three strangers into the back room, and he was powerless do anything but obey her orders. The gypsy girl continued to stare at him until the door was closed.
He walked over in near panic and stood directly outside, ready to break through the moment he was called. Then he noticed Francis was still standing across the hall in the archway, equally disturbed.
“You’re dismissed,” Robert said. “I’ll speak with you later.”
Francis went pale, turned, and left.
Robert didn’t want anyone else here. His fears did not surround only his lady’s safety. What was she doing? His mind raced for any reason she would call upon armed vagabonds in the middle of the night, and the only possible answer lef
t him cold.
She was arranging to have someone murdered.
Only two choices were possible: either the duke or Bess Holland.
He paced before the door, searching for some way out of this. Though troubled by her actions, he could not blame Elizabeth. How might anyone react to the treatment she’d received? But he had to stop this. If the target was Bess, his lady would only bring further shame and scandal upon the house. And if it was his lord . . .
He listened to the low voices beyond the door, hearing mainly Elizabeth’s and the smooth tones of the young woman. Elizabeth’s voice rose several times, and at one point, he thought she sounded horrified, but he couldn’t make out the words.
Thinking more clearly, he rationalized that his lady would never arrange to have her husband murdered. Even if she managed to keep her life afterward, she had too much to lose by way of title and wealth and position were she to be found out—and he did not believe she would risk the future of her children. No, she was going to punish Bess.
Beyond the door, Elizabeth’s voice rose again, and the door was jerked open. She stood on the other side, looking out at him. Her features was drawn tightly, her eyes full of pain. But she appeared more composed now.
She stepped out of the room. “Robert, please have them escorted out.” Her voice was ragged. As the strangers seemed to slide into the dining hall, he noticed the young woman carried a velvet pouch. Elizabeth had paid them already? What was going on?
“Francis!” he barked, hoping the guardsman was within earshot.
“Sir?” Francis appeared the archway.
“See these people all the way out of the gates.”
Robert wasn’t leaving the hall—not yet. The gypsy was staring at him again. He tried not to look at her as Francis led the strangers out. They went quietly. As of yet, he hadn’t heard either of the men even speak.
Then he was alone with Lady Elizabeth.
“Robert,” she whispered. “I almost made a mistake tonight. But I changed my mind. I could not . . . could not . . .”
The relief flooding him was so intense his legs felt weak. She had changed her mind.
“You paid them?” he asked.
“For their time. For their trouble. For their silence.”
In the moment, it did not shock him that she was speaking to him of such things, as if he were her brother or cousin or her equal.
“What will you do now?” he asked.
She lifted her head to look at him. “Think of my children. I must work for their futures. I have no way to fight my lord.”
“Then don’t,” he said coldly.
Her brow wrinkled.
He hesitated only a few seconds before the words came pouring out. “Do you not see why he chose Bess Holland? Your washing woman? Who would cut you more? Ignore the fact that Bess exists. She is not worth your notice. When the duke speaks to you cruelly in front of others, regard him with disdain or pretend he has not spoken. Show him that he is not worth your notice.”
Her eyes shifted back and forth as she listened, absorbing Robert’s counsel, appearing as if such a tactic had never occurred to her.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Then she looked him in the face again, and they suddenly both realized the inappropriate nature of this discussion considering their ranks. And they were both acutely aware of everything that had taken place in the last hour.
Robert stepped away. “I should make my rounds outside,” he said.
She did not bother responding to him but walked to the other end of the hall, out the arch, and toward the stairs.
He sucked in a deep breath and steadied himself on the edge of the table for a moment, and then he, too, fled the hall, going outside into the cool night air as fast as he could.
He did not want to be in the house.
The thread that had held him here protecting Lady Elizabeth was broken. This had become a madhouse of dark secrets and hatred, and he wanted no part of it.
He kept walking, not even checking in with the guards outside, just walking, until he reached the outside of the stables. He could hear the horses moving about inside, and the sound was slightly calming—or at least grounding.
“Do you like being out at night?” a smooth voice asked from his left.
He whirled and felt his heart stop briefly as the gypsy stepped from behind a tree. The sight of her made him tense up again. His experiences with women were limited to the occasional girl along the road, and only in his much younger life.
“I had you escorted out,” he said.
“You did,” she answered lightly. “I came back.”
He moved closer, intending to grab her arm. “I won’t have assassins near this house.”
“I’m not an assassin,” she said. “My companions are, but I met them only a few nights ago, and I bet them five sovereigns your lady would change her mind once she heard the details.”
He stopped. “What?”
She shrugged. “I saw her face when we first made arrangements, at a tavern in the village. To dream of murdering a rival is one thing; to hear the effects of poisons or drowning or strangulation is another. I knew she would change her mind.”
“A tavern?”
Then he remembered that Elizabeth had gone into the village for a while a few evenings ago. He’d stayed behind and sent a small contingent along as escort.
The gypsy girl was so close that even in the darkness he could see every detail of the lashes around her black eyes. Her close proximity made his chest ache, and he fought to keep his hands at his sides. Did she not fear being alone with him in the night?
“Why did you come back?” he whispered.
“For you.”
He didn’t move, and the sound—or perhaps the quality—of her voice changed.
“You long to leave this place,” she murmured. “To run and seek adventure, to travel, to see other sights and hear other sounds.”
As she spoke, the pain in his chest faded, replaced by excitement. Her words began to create pictures in his mind of the wonder of constant travel, living on the road with her, and she . . . she would never be at a loss for something new to explore. She was a fountain of ideas and adventure, always delighted by the joys of the journey.
She embodied everything he had ever wanted.
“Come with me,” she whispered, moving close enough to speak in his ear. “Come with me now. I’ve waited for you for a hundred years.”
A hundred years.
“Get us two horses,” she whispered. “The front gates are open. Your men are asleep. No one will see us.”
He didn’t even stop to think.
Less than half an hour later, they were riding out the open front gates.
Deep inside the forest, he watched her building a fire, and the reality of what he’d done began to sink in.
Had she put some kind of spell on him?
He’d abandoned his lord’s house with the front gates wide-open and left all his men asleep!
His hands were shaking by the time she finished the fire, and the small twigs crackled and burned.
“What did you do to me?” he demanded, wondering how fast he could get back and yet hating the thought at the same time.
“Nothing you didn’t want,” she answered. “My gift only works to that degree on a certain few . . . those who love the journey more than anything.”
Her voice had changed again, falling like music on his ears, and he began to forget the open gates. He forgot his men. He forgot his lady.
“Your gift?” he asked.
“Where do you wish to go first?” she asked. “Germany? The south of France? Italy?”
“Italy,” he repeated in wonder. He had always longed to see Italy. But her words offered more than travel. He could see pictures of her laughing on a foreign beach in the night air. He could see her offering idea after idea for the next place to explore, the next delight to uncover. For the first time in his life, he did not feel alone.
; She held both hands out to him, and he walked over to grasp them. Her black hair smelled earthy and musty. Her face was lovely, exotic and delicate at the same time.
“I’ve looked for so long,” she said. “You are protection itself.”
He didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t care.
“But you have to agree,” she said.
“Agree?”
“If you come with me, we’ll live only by night, but we’ll live forever. You have to learn the laws and obey them. You won’t age and you won’t die, but not everyone wants this. You have to tell me that you agree, or I cannot go further.”
Live only by night? Forever?
He had no idea what she was saying, but again, he didn’t care. He only knew he could not live now without the perfect vision of traveling the continent with her at his side.
“I’ll agree to anything you want,” he whispered.
She smiled, exposing white even teeth. “I knew you would. I knew I had finally found you.”
She kissed him.
He grabbed the back of her head and pressed his tongue into her mouth. She drew him to the ground by the fire, and he ran his hand down to her waist, pinning her with the weight of his chest.
“No, roll over,” she murmured.
He obeyed her, and then she was sitting on top of him. She was so light he could barely feel her weight.
“My name is Jessenia,” she said, “and you are my other half.”
She leaned down, and he expected her to kiss him again. But she moved her mouth to his neck, and before he realized what was happening, she drove her teeth into throat. The pain was blinding, and he bucked hard to throw her off. But she held on, gripping him and draining his blood.
His mind went blank.
Then he was lost again in the glorious images of rocky beaches with saltwater spray, new cities to explore, ancient churches, lush forests, mountains . . . and Jessenia always beside him, always smiling and laughing or lost in wonder or offering ideas for the next place to go. The pain in his throat vanished. The beating of his heart slowed and slowed. So lost in the lovely visions, he was only dimly aware of his heart. He saw himself sitting with Jessenia at a fine inn, and she offered him a goblet of red wine. He drank deeply. It was delicious.