Love Never Lies

by Rachel Donnelly

  Alec’s gut twisted in disgust. “What my father doth see in her, I’ll never know.”

  “A comely face and a passionate nature, not to mention the hefty dowry she brought.”

  “A passionate nature? Is that what you call it?” Anger built in Alec’s chest, thinking of the shame she had caused his family. Abigail was a whore, plain and simple. No dowry could make amends for that.

  “Your father is happy.”

  “Yea, ignorance keeps him so. ‘Tis well she’s barren or there would be many a bastard running about my father’s hall. On the other hand, it gives her leave to spread herself under all and any who dare, whether friend, kin, or foe.”

  “Ahh! You think she’ll try to wiggle her way into Christian’s bed, is that it?” Beaufort’s amber eyes lit before narrowing, “Being the eldest and heir?”

  Alec gave a derisive grunt. “She’s too sly for that. She plays the angel for his benefit in the event my father dies and she’s dependent of his charity.”

  “Why do you worry then? Christian has taken a wife and Dominic is growing rich fighting tourneys for De Rook in Normandy.”

  Beaufort was right.

  His brothers could take care of themselves. At least Christian could. He wasn’t so sure about Dominic, who, like a reckless youth, courted danger whenever he could. If he didn’t die in a tournament, a careless life of debauchery and drink would surely kill him.

  And you,” Beaufort declared with a note of pride, slapping him on the back, “Are good and truly placed. Now all that remains is to find you a wife.”

  “There’s much to be done ere I turn my attention in that direction.” Right now marriage was the furthest thing from Alec’s mind. But he accepted Beaufort’s hounding with good humor, as he always did. Since his wife died, Beaufort had been on a crusade to marry every eligible person he knew, while avoiding the altar like the pox himself.

  “Your new neighbor, Langley, has two daughters—both of them fair.”

  “You’re asking me to trust your taste in women?” Alec let go a loud hoot of laughter.

  “’Tis the land he’s offering that should wet your appetite.” Beaufort lifted both brows without altering his tone, a look of caution Alec had grown accustomed to as his squire.

  The last time he’d ignored Beaufort’s warning Alec had landed in a steaming pile of shit, having been thrown from the back of an ill-tempered steed that could not be rode.

  “If I was at my leisure to woo the maid who comes with it, but I am not.” Now that Highburn was his, the task of restoring it loomed above him like a steep cliff. He had no time to play the eager swain.

  “I didn’t say she needed wooing.” Beaufort’s tone grew impatient. “I said Langley was particular. A few meetings mayhap. They’re your neighbors. It’s not such a difficult task.”

  “I have no time for a lengthy courtship.” Truthfully, he had no wish to involve himself in a courtship at all, but he knew Beaufort would not stop yapping about it unless he threw him a bone. “I’ll consider it, if you’ll cease preaching like a priest in hell.”

  “Good. Now I must return to my own holdings, ere my serfs rise up in revolt under Aldwin’s tight fist.” Beaufort turned to go, then stopped, the hint of a smile twitching his lips. “Should I send your regards to Hilda ere I arrive home? She’ll be sorely vexed when you come for the Lady Isabeau and leave her behind.”

  Alec gave an ill-tempered grunt. “If I could ransom Hilda, I’d happily take her in the lady’s stead.”

  “Mayhap you’d consider a trade.” Beaufort rubbed his fingers across his chin and looked heavenward. The humor edging his words belayed the serious expression on his face. “I’ll keep the lady for her ransom, if you’ll take Hilda as your serf.”

  “I think not.’

  Beaufort laughed loud and long. “And you call yourself a knight, possessing such a faint heart.”

  “’Tis not my heart, but my body that grows faint with Hilda panting at my sleeve.”

  “Yet, you’d have your men grow weak, panting after the Lady Isabeau instead.” Beaufort’s laughter floated after him as he turned and strode toward the stairs.

  Alec watched him disappear, his heart shadowed with discontent. Bringing Isabeau to Highburn did not sit well with him, but she was his responsibility. He could hardly leave her in Beaufort’s care. If he expected to collect the ransom, he would just have to grit his teeth and bear it.

  ‘Twould not be so easy to avoid her under the same roof—to ignore the sweet curve of her lips or the twist in his gut when she smiled at other men. But there was naught he could do, if he wanted the ransom.

  If absence made the heart grow fonder, mayhap familiarity would cause the steady increasing lust he felt for the maid to retreat, and leave his soul be.

  ***

  Isabeau kept her gaze fixed on Hilda’s back as they threaded their way through the crowded square. ‘Twould not be wise to lose Hilda—at least not until she got her bearings and came up with a plan of escape, especially with Beaufort and his men milling about.

  When Beaufort announced that everyone at the castle would attend Hilda’s sister’s wedding, a ploy no doubt, to win the loyalty of his new flock and atone for his recent neglect, Isabeau could hardly believe her luck. Whatever his reasons, she was determined to put the opportunity to good use.

  The merriment of the wedding celebration was the perfect distraction she’d been waiting for.

  She shot a hasty glance over her shoulder in search of Edric. His feverish attention had dogged her every step the entire afternoon. Strange, since he had had little or nothing to do with her for a sennight. However, she’d felt the heat of his gaze from where he stood sentry at the gatehouse whenever she stepped out into the courtyard.

  She suspected Fortin had something to do with it. No doubt he’d warned Edric off. According to Hilda, Fortin had had words with Aldwin as well before his leave-taking. They had not gone without a meal since. It seemed Fortin would go to any lengths to protect his precious ransom.

  But today, with the ale flowing freely, she feared Fortin’s warning might have worn off.

  In order to slip away unseen, she must first shake Edric off her scent.

  They emerged from a mass of laughing faces to an open spot in the churchyard, where the villagers joined hands in a lighthearted dance, while three musicians played. The lively melody from the lute, horn and tambourine swirled over, under, and around them like smoke.

  Isabeau’s heart clutched in the midst of their abandonment. She might have been dancing at her own wedding if not for Fortin, a crown of rosemary circling her head. Now, she could only pray Lord Hogan still wanted her.

  One of the revellers, an acquaintance of Hilda’s ‘twould seem, caught Hilda by the arm, pulling her into the circle of dancers to join in the glee.

  In a trice, Isabeau swung the other way.

  ‘Twas almost certain Edric lurked close by, but she dared not look over her shoulder, for fear of inciting suspicion.

  The palfrey she and Hilda had ridden down the winding hill from the keep stood tethered to the wooden fence on the other side of churchyard.

  If she could but reach it, she might make good her escape.

  Isabeau’s heart thudded wildly as she hastened across the green.

  By the time she rounded the other side of the stone church, her pulse pounded hard against her ears.

  She hurried by the twenty odd war horses munching grass at the wooden fence to make her way to the chestnut palfrey tethered at the end of the group.

  The steady stamp of footsteps behind her made her heart thump.

  She hastened her steps.

  “Wait! My lady!”

  Edric.

  Rot!

  She might have known it couldn’t be that easy. If anyone would find her, ‘twould be him. She closed her eyes and sucked in a long calming breath, then, seeing no other choice, turned around.

  “Forgive me,” he said in slurred tones when he reached h
er, bending over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “But running has made my head spin.”

  Her gaze darted past him toward the village, then back to the top of his curly blonde head. How on earth was she to get rid of him? She could not keep the exasperation from her tone. “You should not run after taking so much ale.”

  He raised his head and grimaced, putting a hand to his belly. “I don’t feel so well.”

  “You don’t look very well either, unless green is your new color.” She took him by the arm to lead him toward the fence. “Here, you’d better sit down.”

  No sooner did he sit than he rose to his feet again to lean over the fence gagging.

  Isabeau wasted no time.

  She picked up her skirts and ran.

  Edric was retching in earnest when she reached the palfrey. Guilt pricked her to leave him in such a way, but she could not wait. She might never get this chance again.

  She swung up onto the palfrey’s back, then urged her into a trot.

  A quick glance over her shoulder told her Edric was still busy spilling the contents of his belly. With any luck he would collapse after his exertions, buying her more of the precious time she needed. She prayed the rest of Beaufort’s men were half as drunk.

  If so, she was as good as free.

  After covering a goodly distance with no one following, her heart began to slow. Hopefully she could make her way to safe haven before dark. Asking for directions would certainly speed her on her way. Lara would surely help, but Isabeau dared not go near Gilling’s Cross for fear someone might recognize her.

  She remembered passing a monastery on the way. Mayhap the good brothers would aid her in her plight.

  She did not relish the thought of returning to her uncle. But what else could she do? She could not journey to her betrothed unescorted. Cornwall was too far away, even if she knew where Lord Hogan lived, which she did not.

  ‘Twas her own fault, of course. Joy at the prospect of fleeing her uncle’s home had made her remiss in demanding many details. But she was not alone. Her parents had abandoned their trust to her uncle as well. Their disappointment would be great if the match failed.

  Frustration built in her breast at the mere thought of facing Barak. An image of his taunting smirk swam in her head, making her grit her teeth. But there was nothing else she could do. She had no choice, but to return to her uncle in hopes he might recover her dowry.

  Exhaustion and lack of light eventually forced Isabeau to rein the palfrey in. Though she was certain she had taken the right road after skirting around Gilling’s Cross, to her consternation, the monastery was still nowhere in sight.

  She led the palfrey to a stand of pines, then set about gathering twigs to make a fire. ‘Twas a worrisome task, as the light and the smoke might alert thieves, but she feared being attacked by wolves more.

  Hesper’s warning whispered in her head.

  Some time later, huddled over the crackling blaze, the murmur of voices drew her attention to the road.

  Nay, mayhap only one voice.

  ‘Twas difficult to tell, as the wind picked the words up as soon as they were spoken and whipped them through the feathery branches of the tall pines swaying overhead.

  Isabeau came to her feet to edge her way to her palfrey. If only she had her dagger, but Fortin had refused to return it to her, no doubt fearing she would use it to slit his throat. She had to admit, the thought had crossed her mind each time she felt the bite of his jibing tongue and again now at finding herself in this predicament. If not for him, she would not be here in the dead of night, worrying about the dark robed figure tromping toward her up the road.

  “Good eventide,” the stranger called in a gruff voice, ambling closer, dragging a nag attached to a small cart. “Might a weary pilgrim beg a moment to warm his hands over your fire?”

  As he drew closer, Isabeau spied the large silver cross swinging from a chain around his neck. Her heart began to slow. “Yea, brother,” she said, sucking in a deep breath. “I’d welcome your company, as well as any prayers you might offer on this night.”

  After leading the horse and cart from the road, he came to stretch his fat fingers over the glowing coals. Upon closer inspection she determined there was nothing about him to insight fear.

  He was short in stature—no taller than she, with a clean-shaven head and the largest, roundest nose she had ever beheld. It matched the rest of his face, giving him a kindly look that soon put her at ease, along with his forthright manner when he eventually spoke. “They call me Brother Patrick. And what might I call you?”

  “Isabeau.”

  “What do you here, my lady,” he asked after a time, “So late at night, and all alone?”

  Isabeau sent him a quick glance from under her lashes, wondering if she dared trust him. The clergy were often closely allied with the local nobles. With Gilling’s Cross not far away, Fortin might be an acquaintance. Yet she could not lie to a man of God. “I’m traveling to my uncle’s.”

  “The monastery is but a few furlongs from here. I’m certain the Abbott would offer you sanctuary until you can send for an escort to accompany you on your way.”

  “Thank you.” She heaved a sigh of relief at his kindness. “I’d be most grateful.” Grateful not to have to wander the countryside lost and alone at the mercy wolves and thieves, and god knows what else.

  “The Abbott is ever eager to help a soul in distress, the more desperate the better. It speeds him on his way to heaven. And apparently, you’re in grave distress, else you’d not have taken such a risk.” Brother Patrick tilted his head to regard her beneath his bushy white brows with keen interest. “Mayhap you should tell me what brought you to this condition, so I might plead your case better.”

  “’Tis a long and complicated tale I fear.”

  “I’ll guard your words closer than a confession,” he called over his shoulder as he wheeled around to trundle to the cart. Having fetched them each a woolen blanket, he returned to sit before the red, orange licking flames across from her to offer his full attention. “Fire away. A good tale always helps me to sleep,” he said with a broad wink. “Not to worry though, if I should nod off before you’re through, I’ll bless you on the morrow.”

  Whether from his friendly manner or the tragic state of her heart, Isabeau soon found the events of the past weeks pouring from her lips. She told him everything, but her captor’s name, still cautious of where his loyalties might lie. To his credit, he did not raise a brow at any part.

  “A harrowing tale to be sure,” he said when she was through, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. “I’ll bless you now and again in the morn.” He made the sign of the cross, murmuring prayers in Latin under his breath. Then, true to his word, he curled his head beneath his arms and closed his eyes.

  Isabeau lay awake long after, listening to his erratic snores, punctuated by the pop of sparks flying up from the orange flames.

  What had she expected—some heavenly guidance? But how could a cloistered man such as he relate to the troubles of a young maid? Or mayhap ‘twas simply his calling, to listen as God did with no answer, trusting her soul to tell her body what to do in good time.

  Unfortunately, right now her soul was in utter conflict. Though part of her rebelled at returning to her Uncle, she saw no other choice. He was the only connection to her betrothed—her only hope for a prosperous match. Going home to her parents would be like returning from the well with an empty bucket. All those years spent laboring in her uncle’s household – dodging Barak’s sweaty palms for naught.

  Nay, she was doing the right thing.

  She had successfully side-stepped Barak’s advances before.

  She would do so again.

  ***

  Isabeau flew around the small cell which had served as her bedchamber at the monastery for the past two eventides, anxious to leave it as pristine as when she came. Not a particularity difficult task, as the room was as sparse as a cave. Nevertheless
, she pulled up the sheets, folded the woolen blanket at the end of the bed, then sat down to braid her hair on the wooden bench, the only other piece of furniture besides the bed.

  Could it be real?

  Her betrothed was actually here?

  When Brother Patrick told her, she could hardly believe her ears. But the brother had assured her ‘twas true—he had no doubt. The nobleman who had come for her described the foreign script etched on the back of the ruby amulet. Who else could it be but him?

  Only her betrothed and the messenger who delivered it knew of its existence. She had never shown it to anyone, not even her uncle. There had been no reason. Uncle Royce would not be able to decipher the strange language any better than she.

  Now, at last, she would know what those words meant. At last, she would meet Lord Hogan—the man she hoped to make a home with. The man she had dreamed of for so long.

  Hair neatly plaited, she stood to smooth her blue kirtle with her palms. Though worn from so much recent use, at least it was fresh and clean, thanks to Brother Patrick’s generosity.

  Isabeau opened the door to her cell with a trembling hand.

  Brother Patrick came hustling toward her with a twinkle in his eye. “Come, my lady. Your betrothed awaits!”

  She followed him down the narrow stone corridor of the monastery dormitory, limbs quivering beneath her kirtle with every step. With the moment finally upon her, she despaired at knowing what to say. Would Lord Hogan be angry over the loss of the dowry?

  Her step faltered.

  Mayhap he had not come to collect her, but to tell her the betrothal was off.

  She sucked in a deep cleansing breath, then stepped through the dormitory doorway into the courtyard. If that were the case, she would bear her shame with dignity.

  Until he departed.

  And then, verily she would shriek and moan and pull her hair in vexation at the injustice of her fate.

  She kept her eyes trained on Brother Patrick’s back, suddenly stricken with shyness—abashed at all the trouble her betrothed had gone to on her behalf. Only when Brother Patrick stopped did she slowly lift her gaze.