by Tamara Leigh
“Enough!” He pulled her toward his men who were ready to ride. Though they cast their gazes elsewhere, they would be blind and deaf to not know of his displeasure as he lifted her onto her horse.
El held in the tears that aspired to her eyes, accepted the reins he thrust into her hands, stared after him as he strode toward his destrier.
“I can do no more,” she whispered.
“You can be the wife the Bible commands you to be,” the priest said as he urged his mount nearer hers.
She looked around. “Were I his wife.”
Father Crispin sighed. “He deserves better than you. Better than that Verdun—” He slid his eyes heavenward as if to ask forgiveness for what he had nearly named her aunt. “That Verdun woman,” he finished and applied his heels to his horse.
As the animal carried him past, El wondered at his words that sounded more like those of a friend than a priest. Next, she considered Bayard’s men. None looked her way, containing their curiosity as they had done when she had stepped from the tent this morn.
Though she had expected sly glances and crude asides following her night with Bayard, there had been none. She had heard a lord’s men were a reflection of himself, and as it had proved true with Murdoch, so it was true with her uncle whose men, for all their ferocity, showed courtesy and respect off the battlefield. To wit, Bayard’s men ought to be as repulsive as Murdoch’s, perhaps worse. They were not.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The men Quintin had taken with her were outside Castle Mathe’s walls, smoke from the fires of their encampment casting gray shadows against white-washed stone.
Bayard glanced at the sky. From the sun’s position, it could not be more than two hours since he and his men had left the encampment. Expecting Quintin would ride out to meet him, he spurred his destrier ahead of his knights.
Soon, three riders appeared—all men, meaning Quintin was inside the castle since nothing would keep her from accompanying those who rode to greet their lord.
Feeling the storm within seek the surface, Bayard reminded himself he was not without recourse. He had Thomasin regardless that she proclaimed otherwise. Providing De Arell had a care for his daughter, the man would relinquish Quintin to protect Thomasin from retaliation—not only Bayard’s, but that of the king who would now order Quintin to wed into the Verdun family.
As Bayard had done throughout the ride, he pondered Thomasin’s pleading that her lie be believed. So genuine she had seemed. Because she feared her father? Feared him more than the one who was now her husband?
“My lord!” called Sir Victor, a man as dry as dry could be.
Bayard reined in. Moments later, his senior household knight halted his destrier.
“For what did you allow my sister to enter De Arell’s walls?” Bayard demanded.
The man settled his hands on his saddle’s pommel and slowly leaned forward as if nothing in the world were urgent. “As Lady Quintin is wont to do, my lord, she did not listen. Thus, though De Arell denied holding you, your sister was determined to enter and see for herself.”
“You could not turn a woman from such a reckless quest, Sir Victor?”
The knight shrugged, though it was not from lack of deference. Simply, it was who he was—a man who allowed little to settle too long upon his shoulders. A good thing in many circumstances, but not this. “As your father oft noted, my lord, Lady Quintin would have fared better had she been born a man.”
As those who had accompanied their lord reined in behind him, Bayard said, “Tell me what happened.”
“De Arell invited your sister to his table. When we were unable to convince her to decline, five others and I accompanied her within. Your lady sister sat at De Arell’s side and, throughout the meal, demanded to be told where you were held. He refused her.”
“Because he did not hold me!”
“’Tis most obvious now, my lord.”
Bayard dragged patience up from his depths. “Continue, Sir Victor.”
“De Arell should not have laughed at her, though I cannot say her response would not have been the same had he not mocked her.” He heaved a sigh. “I saw what was coming but could not reach her quickly enough to prevent it. She drew her dagger upon De Arell and laid the blade to his throat.”
Bayard clenched his hands, looked to the castle, imagined his sister imprisoned in one of the towers whose banners boasted the green and black of De Arell. Providing the Baron of Blackwood had not harmed Quintin, she would be pacing.
“And when still he would not tell,” Sir Victor continued, “she cut him.”
Bayard heard his knuckles crack. He was not surprised at what his sister had done, for though she was a fine lady when it suited, she was far less a lady when it did not. He returned his gaze to the knight. “How badly did she injure De Arell?”
“Only deep enough to anger him.”
Bayard turned a hand around his sword hilt in anticipation of the blood he would shed. “I assume she was subdued.”
“Aye, as you know, she may think herself a warrior, but she has not the skills.”
And she had not had her man-at-arms, Rollo, there to defend her. “What harm did De Arell do her?”
“He landed her upon the table and took the dagger from her. That is all.”
All he had seen. “Where were you and the others?”
“We were all present, my lord.” The knight drew a long breath. “Unfortunately, we were unable to aid your sister, for De Arell’s men drew around us.”
What fool thing were you thinking, Quintin? Bayard silently took her to task.
“We were turned out.” Sir Victor glanced over his shoulder. “Thus, we know not where your sister is held.”
Had she been abused? Ravished? The ache in his teeth warning that if he did not cease their grinding he would break a tooth, he eased his jaws. “This day, De Arell will deliver my sister to me.” He looked behind to where Thomasin had reined in.
She met his gaze, slowly shook her head to refute his claim.
He swept his arm forward and called, “Ride!”
Amidst the thunder of hooves, Bayard led his men across the meadow that had shed a good deal of its snow.
Those who had accompanied Quintin to Castle Mathe gathered as their lord neared and greeted him with calls and raised arms. Still, their faces were anxious. And for good reason. Though it could not be said Bayard Boursier was harsh, neither did he tolerate senseless errors. Thus, in the midst of winter when most were wont to pass the season in idleness—out of the chill wind—they would train. And train hard.
“Archers, mount up!” Bayard shouted, causing a dozen men to run for their bows and horses.
As El allowed her mount to be carried forward with the others into the smoke of numerous campfires, she considered the imposing fortress lorded by Griffin de Arell. A man-at-arms stood in each embrasure between battlements, and more soldiers were atop the gatehouse.
If De Arell was not among them, he soon would be, and then the lie Bayard believed she had told would be made truth amid the grind of his humiliation.
Bayard slowed and led his men past the tents and across the stretch of land before the castle walls. A hundred feet back from the drawbridge raised against him, he dragged on the reins. “De Arell!” he shouted.
El halted her mount amongst those who flanked her and resettled her hood upon her head. Not that its cover would keep her from being revealed, but it was of momentary comfort. As she waited for the Baron of Blackwood to show himself, she pressed a hand to her roiling belly.
“Boursier!” a voice assaulted the silence.
El returned her gaze to the gatehouse. The bearing of the man who appeared there proclaimed him the lord of Castle Mathe, though not his age. She had imagined that the one who was to have been her husband had Bayard wed Thomasin would have more years about him—at least two score and five. However, he appeared to be younger by ten or so years, meaning it was in his youth he had sown Thomasin upon a commoner.
“I have come for my sister!” Bayard shouted.
De Arell smiled. “For what do you think I would give over my prisoner—a woman who, in the presence of all, tried to murder me?”
Bayard looked around and found El’s gaze in the depths of her hood, then turned his destrier and guided the animal toward her.
“Thomasin,” he said as he drew alongside.
She peered up at him, doubted the shadow cast by the hood hid the distress upon her face.
He set a hand to her forearm and leaned near. “You are my wife now and under my protection. No harm can he do you.”
Though jolted by his concern, of greater note was that he believed she—rather, Thomasin—feared her father. “I am not frightened of De Arell. There is naught he can do to me. Indeed, he will likely thank me for suffering you a fool and sparing his daughter marriage to The Boursier. Thus, the only protection I require is that which will save me from your anger.”
His gaze glittered darkly, hand dropped from her. “You truly think me a simpleton.”
“Nay, merely deceived.”
He reached up, yanked the hood back, and looked to the gatehouse. “I have your daughter, De Arell. Now deliver my sister to me!”
El met De Arell’s gaze, tensed in anticipation of his denial.
He stared, shouted something to his men, and strode from sight.
“My lord!” called the knight named Sir Victor.
El fastened her gaze on him. Brow furrowed, he hurried his mount toward Bayard.
He knew. After all, he had been in De Arell’s hall. Thus, he must have seen the man’s daughter. The realization frightened El, but she was grudgingly grateful the man might save Bayard from further humiliation.
Sir Victor halted before his lord. “Surely you do not say this is—”
“Lady Thomasin Boursier,” Bayard said.
The way he said it—low and threatening, as if daring the knight to gainsay him—made her tense further. Now the truth would be told.
Darkness welled through Bayard as he stared at his man whose only failing was Quintin’s ability to maneuver him where he should not go. For that, he had surely assembled the garrison to ride in search of their lord. But in the matter of Thomasin, did he also fail? While in De Arell’s hall, had he been presented with another of that name?
Almighty, he called to the heavens, if this woman is not De Arell’s daughter, all is lost. And he would be left holding a fool’s cap. But it made no sense. Did it?
His breath sounding like a wind in his ears, he searched backward through these past days—Agatha’s reaction in the underground when he had threatened De Arell’s daughter, Thomasin’s unwitting divulgence that she was not ten and seven, Agatha’s warning yestermorn that he knew not what he had done, Thomasin’s fervent avowal to Father Crispin that hers was not a marriage, her revelation this morn that she was not Thomasin.
But who else would dare what this woman had done other than one who did not wish to wed him? There was yet Thomasin’s father, but it made no more sense today than it had days earlier that De Arell would send women to work his ill, especially his own daughter. Had he sent another?
“You say this is not Thomasin de Arell, Sir Victor?” he demanded.
The man leaned in. “I but question whether it is truly she.”
Bayard refused to indulge in the relief that sought to seep through him. “Then you have not laid eyes upon Lady Thomasin?”
He shook his head. “She was not present in her father’s hall, my lord, but her father told that she was abovestairs.”
To conceal the absence of his daughter? Bayard began to smile, while beside him Thomasin groaned. Her deception was undone. Still, a nag of uncertainty remained.
The drawbridge began to let out its clattering chains, drawing Bayard’s gaze past Sir Victor.
De Arell was coming out. And to assure their lord’s safety, archers appeared between the battlements, arrows nocked, bows drawn.
Bayard’s archers responded in kind.
“My lord?” Sir Victor pressed.
“Soon we shall know the truth of it,” Bayard said and looked to the woman at his side. “You had best pray you are Thomasin de Arell.”
Her smile was sorrowful. “No amount of prayer can change that I am not.”
Why did she persist? He returned his gaze to the drawbridge that slowly lowered to reveal a mounted rider beyond the bars of the portcullis. Shortly, the massive wooden structure met the ground with a reverberating crash, and the portcullis began to rise.
Resenting the loss of his eye that forced him to turn his head to fully assess what he stood against, Bayard considered the archers on the walls. A slip of the finger was all that lay between him and an arrow to the heart.
“Come, Thomasin,” he said as De Arell guided his horse onto the drawbridge.
“Bayard—”
“Say naught!” he commanded, then seized her reins and guided her forward.
De Arell halted his destrier near the end of the drawbridge and eyed Thomasin.
With displeasure or questioning? Displeasure, Bayard determined, though still he was nagged. He reined in twenty feet distant from the man.
Hands light upon the pommel of his saddle, the corners of his mouth curling slightly, the lord of Castle Mathe shifted his regard to Bayard. “Tell me, Boursier, are your lands forfeit or nay?”
“Nay.”
“Then you spoke vows with my daughter?” He glanced at Thomasin.
That the knave did not otherwise acknowledge her caused the claws of that which crept up Bayard’s back to more deeply pierce his flesh. “As ordered by the king, the alliance was made.”
“Bayard,” Thomasin tried again, “he—”
“Now you will release my sister.”
De Arell shook his head with mock regret. “I would, but should the king, through some beneficence, honor your marriage, it will fall to me to wed Lady Quintin.”
Disavowing all he implied, telling himself De Arell and his daughter made sport of him, Bayard leaned forward. “It falls to you to wed Elianor of Emberly.”
Once more, De Arell looked upon the woman who had to be his daughter. “That is no longer possible, is it, my lady?” He arched an eyebrow. “I am right about you, am I not?”
Thomasin inclined her head.
“I cannot say I am displeased.” This time his smile showed teeth. “Word came early this morn that you had gone missing from your guardian’s demesne. Thus, he has ridden to Ellesmere Abbey to search you out.” He looked back at Bayard. “Mistakenly, of course.”
Her guardian. Ellesmere.
How the flesh of Bayard’s neck stung! “What game do you play, De Arell?”
“Not I, though your wife makes my family part of hers by taking the name of one dear to me.” He peered over his shoulder. “Show yourself, Thomasin!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Feeling the pound of his heart, Bayard followed De Arell’s gaze to the gatehouse roof.
An archer stepped back, and a woman appeared between the battlements.
“There is my daughter, Boursier. Younger than your wife by several years.”
Though distant, there was no mistaking the woman was more a girl than the one at Bayard’s side, nor that she was plain of face as was told.
Everything slammed together—every godforsaken piece—but still he denied it. Denounced it. Rejected it. Not only for the loss that would be his family’s, but for the pity and attraction he had felt for the woman who had wrought his downfall, the same for whom he had allowed himself the smallest hope they might make peace enough so all the days of their lives would not be cursed.
Admit it, he told himself. The Boursier who suffers no fools has been made one—worse, in full sight of his enemy.
Anger taking a long stride through him, he bitterly accepted that what De Arell told with such satisfaction was as true as when Bayard had come upon the man’s brother with Constance. Just as his first wife’s beaut
y had exposed the vein in his neck, his second wife’s beauty flayed him wide open.
What he could not yet see for the emotions nearly blinding him was the identity of the one who was not De Arell’s daughter. Knowing he ought to know, he swung his gaze to her.
Though what shone from her eyes looked like regret, he named it deception.
“At last,” De Arell said, “the mighty Boursiers, ever taking what is not rightfully theirs, brought to heel.”
He referred to the barony of Godsmere and Castle Adderstone to which his sire, Ulric de Arell, had aspired, and Constance Verdun whom his brother, Serle, had pursued even after she was wed to another.
Bayard loosened a fist in anticipation of his sword hilt.
“And by a woman, no less,” Griffin de Arell struck again.
Bayard closed his fingers around cold steel.
“Bayard,” the woman at his side entreated.
Reason edging aside rage—assisted by the long shadow thrown by the archer whose arrow was trained upon him—he released the hilt.
De Arell made a sound of approval and turned his attention to the woman. “You took my daughter’s name.”
“As ’twas assumed I was she,” she said softly, “I did not dissuade Baron Boursier. I had to protect my family.”
He returned to Bayard. “I knew something was afoul when you did not come for Thomasin—that never would you forfeit. Thus, it came as no surprise when your sister told that you had been taken. The only surprise is the one who took you.” He looked to the deceitful woman. “For all you tried to do, Lady—and I thank you for it—I doubt your uncle will be pleased.”
Inwardly, Bayard jerked. Here was the reason it was not possible for De Arell to wed Elianor of Emberly. Already she was wed. Falsely so.
The guile! The cunning! The same as Constance!
Feeling as if his insides were twisting out, he narrowed his gaze on her.
“I tried to tell you,” she whispered.
He bared his teeth. “When you were without choice.”
De Arell shifted in the saddle. “What do you think the king will do with this?”