by Tamara Leigh
Staring into darkness, Bayard ignored the voice that told him to pray and, instead, vowed that the De Arells would answer for what they had done. Then he cursed them, strained against his chains, and felt one give.
CHAPTER FOUR
“For an hour, you have told all that has gone in my absence,” Magnus Verdun said, “yet naught have you revealed of your own absence.”
Seated opposite her uncle at a work table in the cavernous kitchen, El fit bewilderment onto her face. “My absence?”
He scowled. “Do you play with me, I vow it will make for unsatisfactory sport.”
She lowered her gaze to the bread and cheese platter that had been prepared for him upon his unexpected return this eve. Though grateful he had not arrived home on the night past, which would have placed him here while she was yet at Castle Adderstone, still someone had discovered and reported her absence. Who?
“Elianor?” Magnus spoke her name in full as he did when seeking to impress upon her a matter of great import.
Returning her regard to the darkly handsome man who was only seven years older than she owing to the sixteen years between him and El’s mother, she said, “Forgive me, Uncle—”
“That will gain you naught.” He grimaced. “Too, it makes me feel old.”
She nearly smiled. Though in private, she was El to him, and he was Magnus to her, she reverted to his title of kinship when circumstances called for cajoling. In this instance, the tactic had failed.
“Forgive me, Magnus. I am tired.”
He chose a piece of cheese from the platter, chewed it, and followed it with a draw from his tankard. “Where were you, El?”
There was one thing that might get past him—the abbey to which her aunt had been sent years ago to await the annulment of her marriage to Bayard Boursier, and where she had remained with the exception of a visit to Castle Kelling that first Christmas. Since El had come to live here following Murdoch’s death, she had visited Constance at the abbey a handful of times, and always came away hurting for the woman whose vow of silence and mournful eyes made their time together painful. Bayard Boursier had done that to her aunt, lending truth to what Agatha had told upon being ousted from Castle Adderstone for aiding Constance in battling her husband’s brutality.
El met Magnus’s gaze. “I journeyed to Ellesmere Abbey.”
He frowned. “To visit Constance?”
She hated deceiving him. But he was honorable, and what she had done was without honor, though it was deserved—providing Bayard Boursier had awakened.
Chastising herself for continuing to worry over their enemy, she said, “To pray for the sacrifice the king demands of us.”
She felt his pity sweep her, knew he hated that she must suffer another loathsome marriage. But it was no less than he would suffer if she failed.
He rose, came around the table, and laid a hand upon her back. “I fear your prayers are not to be answered.”
When she looked up, his steel gray eyes awaited her. “You have not asked after my progress with the king.”
“I do not have to.” Though she had shaken herself from bed upon word of his return, she had not been so muddled she had missed the weight upon his brow. Thus, she had distracted him by rushing into an accounting of the affairs of the demesne.
He dropped his hand from her. “No matter the cost to our families, King Edward will have his barons exactly where he wants them.”
She ached for him. Though what she had done would free the Verduns from the Boursiers, still there were the De Arells. “I am sorry, Magnus.”
A tic started at his right eye. For as long as she could remember—since she had been a little girl and he a boy of ten—the spasming had presaged the fires beneath a usually calm exterior. Would he contain these?
He slammed a fist on the table, causing the platter to jump and its clatter to resound around the kitchen. “Would that I could have done something!”
“You tried,” she said softly.
For a long moment, he did not move, and then he drew a deep breath. “The only hope we have hinges upon the one Boursier chooses for a wife.”
Then he did not know of the missive she had shared with Agatha, had not learned elsewhere of Boursier’s decision.
He shifted his jaw. “Mayhap he would rather forfeit than wed his enemy.”
Though he spoke it, she knew he did not believe Boursier any more capable of forfeiting than he was himself. Thus, when Boursier was released, would any believe he had been abducted? She prayed not, that all she had done would be of benefit to her family.
“Soon, we shall know,” Magnus said and turned away.
“Already we know.”
He halted, slowly came back around. When he spoke, his voice was chill. “What have you not told me, Elianor?”
Elianor again. She slipped off the stool and clasped her hands at her waist. “The Boursier has chosen Thomasin de Arell.”
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, there was relief in their depths. “Then you shall wed Griffin de Arell. Hardly a prize, but it could be worse.”
She felt a surge of affection for this man who had worried over what marriage to Boursier would do to her.
“Thus,” he said, “it falls to me to wed the Boursier woman.”
El knew she should say nothing, but she had to reassure him. “It is possible The Boursier will not go through with the marriage.”
“Methinks only by God’s intervention would he yield up his lands.” Once more, fire flared in his eyes, and she knew he loathed that he was not the master of his fate. “Our course is set, El.” He started across the kitchen.
“Magnus, how did you know I was gone from Kelling?”
He looked over his shoulder, the turning of his lips causing a groove to appear in his left cheek. “I may oft be absent, leaving you to manage the demesne in my stead, but I refuse to be uninformed as to what transpires while I am away.”
“Tell, Magnus,” she pressed.
He stepped into the corridor and called back, “I warned you about Agatha.”
As he went from sight, she gripped the table’s edge. The woman had betrayed her? It made no sense, for Agatha also wished Boursier to forfeit.
El laid a hand to her thumping chest. Magnus would not mislead her. Would he? Perhaps he knew—
She shook her head. If he knew what she had done, he would have confronted her.
She cinched the belt of her robe. Though it was the middling of night, Agatha would receive her.
Shortly, having traversed the torchlit bailey beneath the curious regard of men-at-arms, El tapped on the door of the hut that stood alongside the candle maker’s shop.
The door creaked inward and Agatha’s sharp face appeared. “My lady?”
“I must needs speak with you.” El put a foot forward and, after a hesitation, the woman opened the door wider.
El stepped into the gloom cast by a flickering candle that was little more than a puddle of wax. As the door closed behind her, she settled her gaze on Agatha’s work table and considered the items upon it—mortars, pestles, flasks, vials.
“For what do you seek me at this hour?” Agatha asked, though it sounded more like a demand.
El swung around. “My uncle is returned.”
Lips puckering as if to suppress a smile, the woman stepped around El. “’Tis fortunate he did not return earlier,” she said and settled on a stool at her table.
“What did you tell him, Agatha?”
The older woman raised her dark eyebrows. “I?”
El crossed her arms over her chest. “Speak, and do not be false with me.”
Agatha reached to a jar from which a handle protruded and pulled it toward her. As she peered into it, she began to hum. It was always the same song—a pastorela that told of a nobleman’s longing for a shepherdess. Sometimes the humming progressed to lyrics, other times not.
“Girl, said I, charming thing,” Agatha engaged her tongue, “I turned away from my path to
keep you company; for a young peasant such as you should not, without an equal companion, herd so much cattle, in a place like this, alone.”
“Agatha!”
The woman chortled and drew the spoon from the jar. When it came free, dripping honey, she said, “Woe to you, little fly. Now you know that which is sweetest is often deadliest.” She picked the bug from the honey, smeared it across the table, then stuck the spoon in her mouth and began to suck at the sweetness responsible for the fly’s death.
Struggling for patience, El said, “I wait.”
The woman pulled the spoon from her mouth and licked it, then returned the spoon to the jar. “I have not spoken to your uncle, my lady. He told you I had?”
“He implied you had revealed I was gone from Castle Kelling.”
Agatha slowly nodded. “’Tis deceit he works upon you. Deceit to cover for the one he has set to watch over you.”
“But—”
“Think, my lady! For what would I reveal we were gone from Kelling? I know your uncle would not condone what we did.” She turned her palms up. “Just as you know I want the same thing you want.”
El delved the austere face and small, intense eyes of the one who had aided her.
Agatha sighed. “Worry not, my lady. You shall have what you seek.” She rose, crossed to the other side of the table, and peered into a jar. “Providing you are cautious—and more so we must be now that your uncle is returned.”
“What say you?”
She picked up a pestle and began grinding the contents of a mortar. “Certes, you are watched, my lady. Thus, there are two things you might do when it is time for us to return to Castle Adderstone.”
“Speak.”
Agatha peered into the mortar. “Do you know what this is, my lady?”
“What two things might I do?” El pressed.
“’Tis that which I shall burn to put The Boursier to sleep. In this way, he may be released without peril.”
“Tell, Agatha!”
Her tormentor looked up. “Either I go alone to release The Boursier, or neither of us goes.”
El glowered. “I will not let him die.”
“It might be necessary.”
“I will not allow it!”
Agatha set the mortar on the table. “You are weak, my lady.”
“I care not what you name me. I will not be responsible for a man’s death.”
“And yet you would steal all he holds dear, all that makes him a man. Is one not as bad as the other?” She gave a sharp laugh. “Truly, you would do The Boursier a mercy to leave him where he is.”
“Nay.”
“My lady, ‘twould be believed he chose forfeiture and—”
“That he left all behind? His sister, stepmother, destrier, sword, armor? With nary a word?”
Agatha sighed. “The king has told that if Boursier does not wed by the appointed day, no excuse will be tolerated.”
El crossed the space separating them. “He will be released.”
The woman lowered her gaze. “As you will, my lady.” A moment later, her hand rose between them, palm up. “At least allow me to be the one to release him so it may be done without your uncle’s knowledge.”
Give her the key—she who would feel no remorse over Boursier’s death? Through the material of her robe, El felt the ring suspended from her girdle. Had Agatha lied about telling Magnus of her lady’s absence from Kelling?
“You have my word that whatever you bid, I shall do,” Agatha said. “Now, let me aid you as I did with your husband.”
The offer was tempting, for all could run afoul were El followed from Kelling.
“My lady?”
El shook her head, started for the door. “I shall accompany you.”
“Do we fail”—anger sharpened Agatha’s voice—“’tis upon your head.”
El swung the door open. “So be it.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The Boursier was missing, as told by the friar who paused at Castle Kelling on a morning so chill the frost on the ground seemed more a veil of snow. But on the morrow, the Baron of Godsmere would reappear, his defiance of King Edward sealing the Boursiers’ fate.
Though El endeavored to be of good cheer for what she had accomplished, a noose fashioned of guilt continued to tighten about her throat.
She glanced at Magnus where he leaned near the friar. The more he conversed with the man, the greater the doubt he exuded. If he could not be convinced to even consider the possibility Boursier had chosen forfeiture over marriage, would any others?
Lord, I pray Magnus never learns what I have done.
She lifted the lower edge of the tablecloth and wiped the juice of an apple from her fingertips. It was time to join Agatha who made preparations to ride to Castle Adderstone once all were abed.
El stood and met the gaze Magnus turned upon her. “Pardon, my lord, but I have tasks to which I must attend.”
He inclined his head.
Adjusting her wimple, she stepped from the dais and crossed to the corridor that led to the kitchens. Bypassing that doorway, she continued to the one that handed her into a shriveled garden that evidenced autumn had been hasty in yielding to winter.
She shuddered. Though grateful for the sideless, fur-lined gown she had earlier donned atop her lighter, close-fitting cotehardie, she wished she had a mantle about her shoulders. Unfortunately, Magnus would question her if she returned abovestairs to fetch one. How she wished he did not watch her so closely!
Passing through the cloud of her breath, she traversed the path to the gate and entered the inner bailey. Shortly, she was admitted to the hut that was warmed by the fire beneath a hanging pot.
Agatha gestured El to a stool, then crossed to her work table. “A warm honey milk to chase away the chills, my lady?”
Though El occasionally shared a drink with her, she’d had her fill while breaking her fast. “I thank you, but nay.” She lowered to the stool.
As if El had not declined, Agatha tipped a pitcher to the rim of a cup, poured, and returned with the vessel.
El shook her head. “I have had my fill.”
“You are certain, my lady? ’Tis just made.”
“I am certain.”
As Agatha returned to the table, El asked, “All is ready?”
The woman picked through her containers. “’Tis,” she finally said and met El’s gaze past the vial she lifted before her.
El eyed it. “That is it?”
“Aye. Five minutes of smoke, and he shall be out.”
Long enough to unbind him and leave him to discover he was imprisoned beneath his own castle.
“Regrets, my lady?”
El was surprised to find Agatha standing over her, the pitcher at her side. “Regrets?”
“For The Boursier.”
“Why would I have regrets?”
Agatha bent, bringing her face level with El’s. “Despite all your departed husband did to you that I could not prevent, your heart and resolve are weak.”
El tried not to be offended. “Lest you forget, Agatha, ’twas I who first determined to undo The Boursier. I who shall see it through to its proper end.”
The woman straightened and stepped past El. “I do not forget, my lady, which is why I must do this.”
Before El could make sense of her words, pain crashed through the back of her head. She cried out, fell from the stool, and collapsed on the dirt floor.
Struggling to remain conscious, she rolled onto her back and squinted at the dimming figure who stood over her with pitcher in hand.
“Forgive me, my lady,” Agatha said from the other side of a dark tunnel, “but you should have accepted the honey milk.”
No matter how much he roared, no matter how often he slammed his chains against the stone walls for how many ever hell-bent days and nights passed, no one came. But someone would come, for the provisions signified he was not meant to die. And when they came, it would be to a man no longer a baron.
&n
bsp; If not that his throat was painfully hoarse, he would roar again.
Bayard raised his manacle-clasped wrists and drove his hands into his hair. Such fools his captors were to think a man bereft of all would not spend his last ounce of life seeking retribution. And a bloody retribution it would be.
He dropped his arms. The rattle of chains meeting with the ground causing a bitter smile to rise, he felt a hand down one to the end that had come free from the wall. It was the same with the other chain, the rust of years and the fury of a wronged man having freed him that first day.
He stalked across the dark to the door that would not budge regardless of his raging. Dragging a scraped and scabbed hand over the grate, he assured himself that his enemies would soon bring a torch to peer at him. And he would be waiting.
El heard a groan but only realized it came from her when she creaked her lids open.
She thrust up to sitting and gasped at the pain at the back of her head. Cupping a hand over the swelling, she looked around the hut. How long gone was Agatha? How near to murdering The Boursier?
She struggled to her feet and, gripping the stool, squeezed her eyes closed and drew deep breaths. When she finally steadied, a cool sweat covered her, causing her cotehardie to cling.
She released the stool. A peasant’s mantle could easily be had from Agatha’s trunk, the same that El had worn to steal upon Boursier’s demesne, but what of a horse to more quickly deliver her to Castle Adderstone? For certain, one did not await her in the wood as Agatha had arranged the last time. Could a mount be obtained from the stables without anyone gainsaying her? Mayhap she should go to Magnus…
“Nay,” she breathed, “this I will do myself.” Providing, of course, Agatha had not gained too much of a lead and no ill befell El on a journey that boded ill for a woman without an escort. And a fairly imposing escort Agatha had been the last time, her height and sturdy build giving none cause to question whether her hooded figure was that of a man or woman.
El slid a hand to her girdle and touched her meat dagger, the only weapon she possessed. Praying she would not have to wield it, she crossed to the trunk near Agatha’s pallet. Inside was the mantle she had worn before.