Beyond Reason

by Avril Borthiry

  “I'll say nothing to Willoughby until I've heard from Edward.”

  “Christ save us. What if you haven't heard anything by the wedding day? What if he refuses to release you? You would truly go against your king for this woman?”

  “Of course not. If his majesty refuses my request, so be it. Until then, I can postpone the wedding date if need be.” He ran a hand through his hair. “This isn't easy for me, Bernard. God help me, I love the woman beyond reason.”

  “Aye, I can see that, for it is reason you lack. Besides,” Bernard jerked his head toward the door, “has it crossed your addled brain that she might not even live past –”

  A bolt of anger exploded inside him as he slammed Bernard against the wall.

  “Enough,” Robert snarled, his fists fastened on Bernard's tunic.“You go too far.”

  “Forgive me, my lord.” Bernard's chest heaved. “I should not have spoken thus. In truth, I pray wholeheartedly for Isobel's recovery.””

  Robert growled and released his hold. “Get out,” he said, all at once overcome with fatigue. “We'll speak again in the morning.”

  Silence settled around him as the door closed, but it brought no peace. Indeed, the quietness only served to amplify his sense of unease. As he settled back in his chair, Robert's elbow grazed one of the chess pieces that sat on the nearby table. It clattered to the floor and rolled into the shadows.

  He parted with a soft curse and bent to retrieve the wooden figure. To his dismay, he saw the fall had cracked the delicate carving. A cold sensation ran over him as he identified the piece. It was that of the black knight.

  “Don't be foolish,” he muttered, and mentally shook himself. Yet he couldn't deny the growing sense of foreboding that clouded his spirit.

  A timid knock sounded on the door, and Robert's hand closed like a vice around the wooden figure. Does she yet live?

  “Enter.”

  He'd expected to see Edith. Instead, Mary stood on the threshold. Her red-rimmed eyes sent a fresh shard of fear through him. He rose to his feet. “Tell me Isobel still lives, woman. I'll not hear otherwise.”

  “Aye, m'lord, she does, although she has yet to open her eyes. Angmar is asking for you.”

  Relief washed over him. He put the chess piece back on the board and followed Mary from the room.

  The warm air in Robert's chamber now bore odours of thyme, mint and lavender. Isobel lay on the bed, wrapped in a plaid blanket, a poultice covering the worst of the bruising.

  Angmar sat in a chair at the bedside.

  “How does she fare?” he asked, his eyes searching Angmar's face for any tell-tale signs of consternation.

  The old woman's face remained impassive, although her pale blue eyes narrowed a little under his scrutiny. “She yet to stir, my lord, but I'm encouraged, for her heart beats strongly. The poultice will help with the bruising.” She stood and smoothed her skirts. “Edith assures me my lady's chamber is now warm. 'Tis more appropriate that we move her there, I think. Will you carry her?”

  Robert nodded and gathered Isobel into his arms, watching her face for any sign of awakening. “Come on, Angel,” he murmured. “Open your eyes for me.”

  All traces of cold and damp had been ousted from Isobel's chamber, thanks to the fire that now burned bright. Robert placed Isobel on her bed and turned to the two women. “Leave us,” he said. Mary's brows raised. She glanced wide-eyed at Angmar, who also raised a brow, her disapproval obvious. Robert frowned. “I said leave us. Both of you, out, now.”

  Mary curtseyed and scurried from the room, but Angmar remained, disapproval evident in her eyes. For a fleeting moment, Robert was reminded of his mother, whose gentle discipline shaped his childhood. “I just need some time alone with her,” he said, compelled to explain himself. “If she rallies, I'll come and find you.”

  Angmar gave a soft shake of her head, and left.

  Robert dragged a chair to the side of the bed, sat, and took Isobel's hand in his.

  “Isobel,” he whispered, close to her ear. “Can you hear me?”

  She gave no indication of it, but he took solace from her steady breathing. He leaned in and placed a soft kiss on her cheek. For a while, he sat silent at her side, his thumb caressing the back of her hand. Inwardly, he cursed those responsible, vowing again to have his revenge. As he mind wandered back to the attack, he thought he felt Isobel's fingers twitch.

  He drew a short breath and stared down at her hand where it rested in his. Had he imagined it? No. It came again. A slight movement of her fingers.

  Robert raised them to his lips. “Aye, sweetheart, that's it. Wake up. I need you. I love you.”

  “Does she stir?”

  Robert started at the sound of the voice so close to his ear. Angmar stood at his side, her return to the chamber silent and unexpected. Irked by the woman's sudden reappearance, he uttered a curse under his breath.

  “Do you not know how to knock, woman?”

  His angry retort resulted in a shrug from Angmar. “I do, my lord, if I deem it necessary to announce my arrival. Does she stir?”

  Robert sighed as he looked down at Isobel's hand resting in his. His thumb brushed over her fingers. “Her fingers moved. I'm sure of it.”

  “Good. Perhaps 'tis the will of God, then, that she be spared for a different fate.”

  A cold tingle crossed the back of his neck. “You talk in riddles, old witch. Explain yourself. Of what fate do you speak?”

  She shook her head. “I cannot say for certain, but this I do know this, my lord; your love for her is threatened by tragedy, as is her love for you.”

  A faint pulse drummed in Robert's ears. “What tragedy?”

  “The details are not clear. I see only shadows of what might be.”

  Robert grunted. “Methinks you've lived too long with your powders and potions. They've infested your mind with foolish imaginings.” Yet the foreboding he felt still remained, a reality confirmed a moment later by Angmar's response.

  “You have seen the shadows too, my lord, have you not?”

  He flinched. “Christ's blood, Angmar. You test me. I'll not answer to your witchery. And I thought I told you to leave us alone.”

  She frowned. “Such blasphemy will not help your cause with God, my lord. I returned to bring a message from Aggie. She wishes to speak to you about the wee boy and awaits you in the hall. She said it cannot wait until tomorrow.”

  Robert sighed and glanced at Isobel. He wanted to be at her side when she awoke. Once again, his mind seemed open to Angmar.

  “If she awakens, I'll send for you right away,” she said.

  “Aye, you will.” He rose and glanced around the chamber. “Is there aught else you require?”

  She gave him a puzzled look. “Nay, my lord. I would have asked for it already.”

  A wry smile crossed Robert's face. He paused at the old woman's side, took her hand in his, and brushed the papery skin with his lips. “God bless you, Angmar.”

  Chapter 12

  Aggie stood by the door to the kitchen, a burning candle grasped in one hand, a fistful of apron in the other. Her face bore the expression of someone fighting tears. Robert wondered what had upset a servant who, though female, would probably best most of his men-at-arms in a fist fight.

  “What is it, Aggie? What couldn't wait until tomorrow?”

  “Sorry, m' lord, but I’m beside meself, so I am. The poor wee mite. E's sleepin' in the linen room – I locked him just in case.” She shuffled through the kitchen and unlocked a large wooden door. “But you need to see this, m' lord. You need to see this.”

  Curiosity aroused, Robert followed Aggie into the room. Cocooned in a warm blanket on a thick pallet of straw, the child slept soundly. In the gentle glow of candlelight, his previously dirty hair shone like pale gold, strands of it falling over his eyelids. One small hand, curled into a relaxed fist, rested next to his face. His soft, even breaths whispered through the air.

  “The bairn did'na want me to
bathe him,” Aggie whispered. “Gave me quite a mouthful, 'e did, cryin’ like 'e was scared or summat. I soon found out why. Poor little lad. Look at this.” She set the candle down and pulled the blanket away from the boy's body.

  As a soldier, Robert was no stranger to human suffering, yet few things had ever affected him as much as the sight that lay before him now. It stole his breath away.

  The child had been beaten – often, it seemed – and severely. Welts and bruises marred his little back and chest. Some of them had faded with age, while others were yet fresh and bold. Worse, Robert realized, the bruises were such they wouldn't be visible as long as the child wore clothes. That sinister thought, coupled with shock, drew an angry hiss from him as he crouched at the child’s side.

  “God’s teeth.”

  “Did y'ever see the like, m' lord?” Aggie’s voice trembled. “God knows I've given me own bairns a rattlin' good smack once in a while, but never 'ave I seen a little 'un marked like this.”

  Still muttering curses under his breath, Robert drew the blanket back around the child’s shoulders. He stood and glanced around the room, noting the thick stone walls and the tiny window. This was no place for a frightened child who might awaken in the middle of the night.

  “Keep the boy with you tonight, Aggie.” He patted the cook’s shoulder. “I'll speak to him in the morning.”

  “Aye, m'lord.” Aggie’s face relaxed into a smile as she bent to pick up the child. “Thank you.”

  Back in his chamber, Robert kicked the boots off his tired feet and flopped onto the bed. He stretched out and closed his eyes, exhaustion washing over him like a wave. Moments later, it seemed, a woman’s voice spoke his name. The words echoed through his mind, pulling him from the depths of fatigue.

  “Lord Montgomery.”

  Robert opened his eyes a crack, and squinted into the golden light of a candle. He tried to move, but his limbs, as if laden with weights, refused to obey. Was he dreaming?

  “My lord,” the voice said. “Isobel is awake and asking for you.”

  Like grains of sand through an hourglass, the words filtered into his sleep-sodden brain. A heartbeat later, their meaning rang out with the clarity of a church bell and roused him fully awake.

  “Angmar?”

  “Aye. The wee lass is back with us.”

  “Is she alright?” he asked, his voice filled with fearful concern as he pushed himself off the bed.

  “I believe she will be, with care. Your name was the first word on her lips”

  “Thanks be to God.” His quiet whisper brought a soft smile to Angmar's mouth and relief replaced the dark knot of fear that had sat in his chest. He padded along the corridor, barely noticing the cold floor against his feet, while Angmar swept along in his wake.

  Surrounded by the soft glow of candle and firelight, Isobel sat propped up against her pillows, a plaid shawl draped around her shoulders. A fresh poultice rested on her forehead and her eyes, masked by the bruising, were closed. She breathed softly against his face as he leaned over her.

  “Isobel,” he whispered, capturing her hand in his. “I'm here, sweetheart.”

  Her eyelids flickered open and her chest rose and fell in a soft sigh. “Robert,” she murmured. “Are you alright?”

  “Me?” Humbled by her selfless question, he stroked her hair. “That's the question I should ask of you. But aye, I'm alright, especially now that you're back with me.”

  Behind him, Angmar cleared her throat. “I'll go and fetch some tisane. It will strengthen her blood. Do you require anything, my lord?”

  “No, ” he replied, his focus on on Isobel. “There is nothing else I want.”

  “What happened?” Isobel fingered the poultice and gasped, fear settling in her eyes. “Have I...am I marked? Scarred?”

  “No, no.” Unable to resist, he settled at her side and lifted her against him. “Bruised, but not scarred. We were attacked in Settle woods yesterday and you fell from your horse. Do you remember?”

  “Attacked?” She clutched at his tunic. “No, I don't... Oh, wait. I remember that man at the inn...the fight. Joanna. I...yes, I remember. I remember. Oh, dear God.”

  “Hush.” He pressed a kiss to her hair. “Don't distress yourself.”

  “But who attacked us? And why? Was anyone else hurt?”

  “Nay, no one else was hurt. I'm not certain who was behind the attack yet, but I mean to find out.”

  A few moments of silence followed, broken only by the occasional crackle from a burning log.

  “I'm frightened, Robert,” she said, at last. “Frightened for our future.”

  “Don't be.” Ignoring the sudden, familiar ache in his heart, he pulled her closer. “For a moment in those woods yesterday I thought I'd lost you forever. I never want to feel like that again. Never.”

  “I love you,” she murmured, snuggling into his embrace.

  “I love you too,” he replied, kissing her hair. “Rest, now.”

  Angmar opened the door and Robert raised a finger to his lips. The old woman nodded in understanding, but a mild expression of disapproval crossed her face at seeing Robert on the bed. She placed a steaming goblet on the small table by the hearth.

  “There are others at Glendennan this morning who seek their lord's attention.” Her words, while whispered, still managed to snap like the lashes of a whip. “'Tis not my place to remind you of your responsibilities, Lord Montgomery, but 'tis apparent you need reminding.”

  Robert almost choked on a gasp, not quite sure whether to laugh or remonstrate. So he decided to grin at her, obviously an unexpected response, since the disapproval on Angmar's face deepened into a scowl.

  With deliberate care, he drew his arm away from Isobel's limp shoulders and settled her back against the pillows. Then he slid off the bed and met the old woman's condemning gaze.

  “No, it's not your place at all,” he said, cocking his head. “But that's never stopped you before, has it, woman? Indeed, you only need fold your arms and tap your foot on the floor and I'll swear my mother's spirit has returned to chastise me.”

  Obviously taken aback by his response, she blinked. He studied her, seeing beyond the scowl and disapproval. Behind the old woman's stern facade, he knew, lingered a loyal and caring soul – one that had been valued by his mother and father before him. He heaved a sigh and rested his hands on her shoulders.

  “Thank you for all you've done, Angmar.” He bent and placed a kiss on her wrinkled forehead. “You're a light in the darkness and Glendennan is truly blessed to have you.”

  Her jaw dropped and tears filled her eyes. Obviously embarrassed, she turned away.

  “Begone,” she said, “and leave me to tend this little one.”

  ~ ~ ~

  John sat by the blazing fire in the great hall, leaning back against a friendly wolfhound. Robert stood in the doorway and observed the scene with some amusement. The little lad – if Aggie's exaggerated tales were to be believed – had slept the entire night and then ploughed his way through a breakfast that would have fed a small army.

  She'd found clothes for the child from somewhere. Ill-fitting, they hung on him as loose as bed linens on a washing line, but they seemed to be clean and in good repair. Apparently unaware of being observed, John stretched out an arm or a leg once in a while, studying a sleeve or pant-leg with obvious delight and fascination. His main focus though, rested on the pair of used but sturdy leather boots that encased his feet.

  Robert had the impression that any kind of threat would come second to the one of taking away those boots. Every few moments, John would lift one foot or the other to stare at it. Then he'd reach down and pull a foot towards him, poking at the faded leather and stroking the sole.

  Assuming a serious expression, Robert approached the child and stood over him. A pair of large blue eyes turned upwards, their expression of wonder quickly substituted by one of dismay. The boy blinked as he glanced at Robert's sword.

  “Is it Saturday today?” h
e asked, lifting his gaze back to Robert's face. “Are you goin' to put me in the dungeon?”

  The tremble of fear on the child's lip rattled Robert's conscience, and he paused to consider his answer.

  “Aye, it's Saturday.” He squatted and ruffled his fingers in the boy's soft blond hair, dismayed when the child flinched beneath his touch. “But I didn't mean what I said last night. I only said it because I was angry.”

  “An' now you're not?”

  “Not with you, no.”

  The child's brows rose as he looked at his feet. “Does that mean I can keep these boots?”

  A desire to laugh bubbled in Robert's chest. “You can keep the boots.” He unbuckled his sword and sat cross-legged on the floor. “But only if you promise to tell me your father's name.”

  The boy shook his head and chewed on his lip. Was it loyalty or fear that held the boy's tongue? The latter, Robert suspected.

  “Does your father beat you, John?” He leaned in and lifted the boy's chin. “Look at me, lad, and tell me the truth. Does he beat you?”

  Tears filled the child's eyes. He appeared to ponder for a moment before responding. “Aye.”

  Christ.

  “Where's your mother?”

  Tiny shoulders shrugged. “Mama died when I was little.”

  Robert smiled. “You still are little.”

  “I was littler when Mama died.”

  The child's words touched Robert's heart. He glanced around the hall where people were breaking their fast, mingling and chatting. A few caught his eye and nodded in respect to their lord, no doubt wondering why he sat on the floor with a small child.

  “Do you like being here? At Glendennan?”

  John nodded. “Oh aye. 'Tis a grand place.”

  “Would you like to stay?”

  “Well, aye. But...” His eyes dropped to his lap.

  “But what?”

  “Me da will be angry if 'e knows I'm with you.”

  “Perhaps, but your father can't touch you here, John.”

  The child lifted his head, hope sparking in the his eyes. “'E can't?”