by Tamara Leigh
Bayard wavered. Though Quintin had surely reached Castle Mathe and was under the able protection of Sir Victor and those he commanded, he did not like that his sister was out there, especially considering how headstrong she could be when she felt she or her family had been wronged. Aye, he would go after her, but as it would take time for his men to prepare for the journey, there was no reason to not make right what the passing of one more night would have made wrong. When he departed Castle Adderstone, it would be as a married man.
He looked around the hall. “You!” He jerked his chin at the nearest man-at-arms, then a dozen more. “We ride to Castle Mathe this eve.”
“But my lord,” the steward protested, “to ride through the dark in the midst of a storm—”
“Storm!” Bayard barked.
“Aye, my lord. You do not know?”
Bayard pulled the De Arell woman from the dais and started across the hall. At his advance, the porter opened the door, admitting snow that billowed across the hall and ruffled the rushes.
Bayard stared out into the white tempest that whipped chill flakes against his face. Though he had seen moisture upon Thomasin de Arell’s hair when she had entered the cell, he had been too full of wrath to understand its significance. But that anger hardly compared to what gripped him now, filling him so full his muscles began to quake.
“It appears you are without recourse, my lord,” said the woman beside him.
Did she not sense his anger? Feel it in his hand upon her? See it upon a face so heated it was surely livid? “Am I?” he growled and caught up her chin. “But I have you, Thomasin de Arell—recourse enough to satisfy me until the snow lifts.”
How gratifying it was to see fear in her eyes, even if only for an unguarded moment. Accepting the challenge that replaced her fear, he turned her back into the hall. “Don your robes, Father Crispin. This night, I wed Lady Thomasin de Arell.”
His pronouncement was met by cries near and far—the first that of his bride-to-be, the second that of his stepmother who stood so abruptly she nearly upended her chair.
As Bayard drew a straining Thomasin toward the stairs, Lady Maeve descended the dais. Four years past, following the death of Bayard’s father, her figure had begun to grow plump, slowing her movements. Now, she was quick on her feet and reached him before he could ascend the stairs.
He halted. She did not need to speak for him to know what she wanted—that she would have him jeopardize his life and the lives of his men to ride to Quintin’s aid. And he would if he believed his sister was in mortal danger. But though he worried for her, he did not believe her life was at risk. Even were she huddled in a tent outside Castle Mathe’s walls, her demands for her brother’s release unanswered, she was protected by the men of Godsmere.
“Bayard!” Lady Maeve gripped his arm. “You waste time wedding this…” Her upper lip hitched and she shifted her gaze to Thomasin. “…De Arell.” She looked back at him. “You must needs ride on Castle Mathe.”
He understood her sense of urgency, for Quintin was her only child and precious to her. “If I could do so without endangering the lives of my men, I would, Lady Maeve, but snow is upon us as much as night, and I am certain no ill will befall her while Sir Victor is at her side.”
Dark eyes desperate, she dug her fingernails into his flesh. “And if he is not at her side? If ill has befallen him?”
Bayard did not know from which well he drew patience, for he would have thought them all dry. “Then she has another fifty men to ensure her safety.”
She released him and shoved hands into her hair. “Dear Lord, if anything happens to her…anything…”
Bayard cared for his stepmother, but for this he was often grateful she had Quintin who, for four years now, was more mother to Lady Maeve than daughter.
He motioned two men-at-arms forward and pushed his betrothed toward them. “Deliver her to the far chamber abovestairs and keep watch over it. And know this—if she is not there when I come for her, your punishment will be dire.”
The men inclined their heads and took hold of their charge.
With a backward glance, Thomasin de Arell allowed herself to be guided up the steps.
Now to deal with yet another woman with whom he was not fit to deal.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Only death or forfeiture would stop the wedding, and as he was relatively whole and had no intention of yielding up his lands or his soul, vows would be spoken this eve.
Grinding his teeth, Bayard considered the ring pinched between thumb and forefinger. The gold band was wide but plain, the oblong jet stone engraved with an odd symbol resembling an eye.
Though there was nothing to suggest Lady Maeve should have been loath to relinquish the ring as she had been—indeed, were it not of such small diameter, it might have been made for a man—it would serve his purpose since the wedding ring that had first been his mother’s and was now his stepmother’s did not belong on the hand of a woman like Thomasin de Arell. As for Constance’s discarded ring, it boded no good to bind his new wife to him with that which had not kept his first from cuckolding him.
Bayard dropped the ring into the purse on his belt, gripped the stone mantel with both hands, and stared into the fire. Though its blazing heat had sufficiently warmed away the underground chill, it made him reek all the more.
“Almighty!” he choked. He could rail night and day against the treachery of the De Arells, but who would believe him when all he had to show for his imprisonment were two women—one a lady, the other a conniving commoner? And that was not the only barrier. Just as unscalable was the revelation that he, a man of the sword, had been easily felled. Thus, there was nothing to do but wed. Or was there?
He considered Thomasin’s protests when he had called for Father Crispin to don robes. If she refused to speak vows, it would be her family that forfeited. But would they alone forfeit? The king had said he would accept no excuse if Bayard was not wed by this day, and even if Edward reconsidered, it would likely mean marriage to the Verdun woman. Of course, alongside Thomasin, Lady Elianor was no longer without appeal.
But Thomasin it would be, for she was present and would wed him under threat of forfeiture. Hence, the bargain proposed to Quintin nearly a week past would come to pass—to make the De Arell woman’s life miserable. More than miserable should ill befall his sister.
What had Quintin planned? To play the lord and demand her brother’s return from outside the walls? Or be the lady and, by guile, gain entrance to the great hall?
He pushed off the mantel and, as he stepped back, cursed his men for following her. They should have—
Nay, they could not have. Had they refused her, she would have stolen away, putting herself at greater risk once she stood before Griffin de Arell.
Bayard frowned. Was it possible the man knew nothing of his daughter’s foul deed? Though it seemed only Lady Thomasin and Agatha had entered into the underground, it was hard to conceive they had planned their enemy’s undoing without aid. But it was harder to believe Baron de Arell had entrusted the endeavor to women, especially one his daughter.
Whatever the answer, Bayard would take no chances. Through the fall of snow, he had led his men to ensure no others lurked about the entrance to the passage in the wood. There they had come upon the horses that had carried Agatha and Lady Thomasin. Lest he leave himself vulnerable again, Bayard had set men-at-arms in the passage until the entrance could be sealed with stone and mortar. As for Agatha, his men were under orders to ignore her cries. How long before death quieted her?
Behind, the door whispered on its hinges, but Bayard kept his back to it. By the quick-legged strides over the rushes, he knew it was Squire Lucas. And the young man was not alone, as told by the whisper of other feet.
“What is it?” Bayard demanded.
“A bath, my lord.” The squire’s voice was strong and even as he had been taught it should be. A thump behind evidencing the lowering of the tub, Lucas continued, “Whilst
the water is being carried abovestairs, I shall scrape the beard from your face.”
Bayard pulled in a breath of the tainted air about him, knew others suffered more for it than he. It would not do for a man so vilely attired to speak marital vows. Or would it?
He turned. “You!”
The women halted in the doorway.
“Gain your beds,” he said.
Their eyes widened, and Squire Lucas spluttered as he had not been taught. “But my lord, a bath—”
“Can wait.” Bayard jerked his chin at the women and they scurried into the corridor.
When next his squire spoke, he was once again the young man who aspired to knighthood. “As you wish, my lord.” He lifted the razor from his side. “This can also wait?”
“It can.”
“Anything else, my lord?”
Bayard adjusted his eyepatch. “I would know what happened the night I disappeared.”
A flush crept up the young man’s face, and Bayard knew he suffered for not having come to his lord’s aid. “I remember little beyond awakening foul of head to the prod of your sister’s foot.” His color heightened further, for he did not look at Quintin without the sickness of love upon his countenance. He set the razor on a nearby table and stepped forward. “Your sister knew it was Baron de Arell who seized you from your bed, my lord.”
Bayard was not surprised. And he could imagine Quintin’s frustration and anger at being unable to convince Adderstone’s men to leave the castle vulnerable in order to search out their lord with nothing more than her convictions to guide them. If only they had found some way to contain her!
He crossed to a chair and dropped into it. “Your leave is granted, Squire.”
“Neither would you change your garments, my lord?”
Bayard looked down his soiled tunic. “I would not.”
Without gape or splutter, the squire crossed the solar.
Bayard watched closely as he neared the table upon which he had laid the razor and was pleased when the young man retrieved it. A few more years, and he would be ready to assume the responsibilities of knighthood.
The squire glanced over his shoulder.
Bayard nodded. “Lest my new wife determines to shave me herself.”
The young man frowned. “Surely she is not so bold, my lord?”
Though all knew it was Thomasin de Arell who had vilely trespassed against the Boursiers, Bayard had not revealed what, exactly, had transpired. “Surely she is, Squire. And do not forget it.”
“I will not, my lord.” He pulled the door closed behind him.
“Aye,” Bayard muttered, “surely she is.” Thus, he would allow her another quarter hour in which to search out a means of escape, then he would take the shrew to wife.
Agatha. Magnus. The Boursier woman.
El rubbed the heels of her hands against her eyes.
“Lord, I have made a botch of it all,” she whispered to the one who seemed to prefer the role of observer to that of participant. “Is there no way to set the board right—to return the pieces to where they were ere I toppled them?”
Though angered by Agatha’s betrayal, she could not abandon the woman to that dark, putrid pit. Then there was Magnus. If not this eve, by morn he would discover her absence. What would he do? And what of Boursier’s sister who was trying to recover her brother from a man who did not hold him? What if ill befell her in the snowstorm?
Feeling like a small animal in the claws of a beast, she dropped her arms to her sides and looked around the small chamber to which she had been escorted by Boursier’s men. The window was barred, the battered chest was locked, and the wall behind the tapestry lacked an entrance to the walled passages. As for the door, it was guarded from without and there was no means of securing it against any who wished to come within. And, eventually, The Boursier would come within.
El stifled a whimper. She could not declare her true identity, for Magnus would suffer dishonor alongside vengeance, and it would not stop Boursier from taking her to wife to secure his hold on Castle Adderstone. Nor could she claim to be other than Thomasin de Arell, for if believed, she would rejoin Agatha in the underground.
There was only one thing for it, and it made her shudder. She must consent to a marriage that could see her excommunicated were it discovered what she had done. When Boursier came for her, she would wed him and, hopefully, escape him in the days ahead. By the time he learned his marriage was invalid for having wed a woman who was not Thomasin de Arell, his lands would be forfeit. And if she could not escape him? She would surely wish herself chained in the underground. Of course, there was yet the night ahead when The Boursier brought vengeance to the marriage bed.
El drew a deep breath, told herself she had survived before and would survive again. Memories loosed from the graves she had dug them, she rubbed her hands over her sleeves to warm away her chill. Unfortunately, Agatha’s mantle would be of no use until it dried.
She glanced at where she had draped it over a chest, silently cursed the lock that would not give. What was inside? Something that might hand her and Agatha out of this place?
She returned to it, but after further prying, she was no nearer to breaching the lock. Tears stinging her eyes, she started to turn away, but the front corner of the lid drew her gaze. She curled her hand around the warped edge, jammed her fingers into the narrow gap, and heaved. The wood bent. She heaved again.
With a resounding crack, the wood split, and she stumbled back and landed on her rear. Catching the sound of murmurings outside the door, she glanced at the shard of wood torn from the lid and would have tossed it aside had it not so closely resembled a blade.
She hastened to her feet, tossed up her skirts, and thrust her makeshift weapon into the top of her hose. If not for the creak of the door, she would have yelped when a splinter slid into her thigh.
Dropping her skirts, she spun around as a man-at-arms put his head around the door.
“What do ye, my lady?”
El stepped to the side to block sight of the damaged chest. “I wait,” she said. “And wait.”
“We heard something.”
She shrugged. “What do you think ’twas?”
He swept narrowed eyes around the chamber, grunted, and pulled the door closed.
El dropped to the chest. Despite the splinter’s burn, she returned her attention to the lid from which she had gained her weapon. The enlarged gap was too narrow to fit a hand into, and she did not dare attempt to further rend it.
Would a blade of wood keep Boursier from ravishing her? As with her previous attempts to defend herself, it did not seem possible, but there was one thing her future husband could not take from her—her will. Whatever he gained, it would be by way of thieving.
Wishing for a fire to warm away her chill, El hitched up her skirts to examine the splinter driven into her thigh.
“My lord!” a voice came through the door.
She jumped up, repositioned the mantle over the chest, then set her teeth against the burn of the splinter and clasped her hands before her.
The door opened, and there stood The Boursier, none the better for the time afforded him to look the groom. Had he decided against wedding her?
“Come,” he bit, “the priest awaits.”
Then he would defile the lord’s chapel with his stench and ignoble appearance, showing no respect for God?
Telling herself she was not surprised, she stepped forward, the movement making her more aware of the splinter—surely punishment for the sin committed in taking another’s name to speak false vows.
Sending up a prayer that one day she would be forgiven for what she had done and was about to do, she crossed the room and halted before Boursier who stood inside the doorway, his singular gaze promising ill.
Sarcasm a defense none could wrest from her, and which she had used to strike at Murdoch those times she had dared, she said, “A most handsome groom you make, my lord. To my end days, I shall hold dear the sight of
you come for your loving bride.”
That grim smile again. “A wise woman would pray her end days would not be long in delivering her from such a husband.”
His words fell like a lash, but El tempered them with a like response. “Or that her husband’s end days not be long in delivering her from him.” As she had prayed while wed to Murdoch. A prayer answered, though at the time, two years of marriage had seemed an eternity.
Boursier glowered.
El forced a laugh. “Does my wit exceed yours?”
His hands convulsed at his sides, as if he longed to feel her throat beneath them again.
She raised her chin higher. “The priest waits on us, my lord.”
With a sound low in his throat, Boursier stepped to the side to allow her to pass. There was not enough room to do so, and her pierced flesh brushed his thigh as she exited the chamber.
Tears rushing forth, she lowered her face so he would not see her discomfort.
“The end of the corridor,” he said.
El looked past the men-at-arms to the far doorway from which flickering light shone. Before the chapel stood the priest, to the right those who would bear witness, including the renowned Lady Maeve of whom it was said Bayard Boursier’s father had wed to atone for his sins.
A hand gripped her forearm. “But two hours remain ere middle night,” Boursier rasped and drew her forward.
Every step forcing the splinter deeper where her makeshift knife rode against it, El bit her lip harder.
The scent of Boursier further assailed her when he bent his head near. “What was the sound my men heard from within your chamber?”
She looked up into his dark face, sighed. “But a failed attempt. It seems your walls are no longer pregnable.”
His nostrils flared. “Fair warning I give, lady, cause me further grief and you shall rue the breath you breathe.”
Continuing forward, she shifted her gaze to the priest. “You think I do not already?”