Baron of Godsmere

by Tamara Leigh

  “El?” Magnus touched her shoulder.

  When Bayard carried his stepmother from sight, she looked around. “Ah, Magnus, for what did you do this?”

  “I would have had it be otherwise,” he said low, “but I could not leave you to Boursier without being assured you are truly safe.”

  “You should have sent your sister on to Kelling.”

  “I tried to, but she refused.”

  El glanced past him. Her aunt’s gaze was more direct than ever it had been. Was it the quickening cold that made El shiver? Or those still, probing eyes?

  “Are you safe?” Magnus asked. “You can speak true now.”

  She nodded. “My answer does not change in the absence of my husband. Bayard has done me no ill. Indeed, his behavior puts one in mind of a changed man.”

  Censure darkened his gaze. “Or a more cautious man.”

  Was that it? El did not think so. But she should. After all, one could not truly know another in so short a time. And yet…

  Despite having severely tested one said to have abused his first wife, she herself bore no bruises—visible or otherwise—and time and again Bayard had shown self-restraint that even Magnus would be hard pressed to bestow upon one who did to him what she had done to The Boursier. Too, until her uncle’s appearance, there had been little cause for Bayard to exercise caution.

  Hating that her mind was wracked with uncertainty, El said, “’Tis possible, but let us discuss it later that we might sooner see you and Aunt Constance settled in for the night.”

  She turned and, as she led the way up the steps, felt the kiss of ice upon her cheek before her warm skin melted it away. Overhead, sparse clouds gathered. If they continued to increase their ranks, they might lay down enough snow to prevent Magnus and his entourage from departing Adderstone in a timely manner. Doubtless, had Bayard an inkling of that possibility, he would have been less inclined to admit his old enemy.

  When El entered the hall, she faltered at the realization that the first time she stepped foot in Adderstone as its lady in truth, she did so in the company of the one who had last bore the title—a woman Bayard had wanted as opposed to one he did not want.

  It is well, she told herself. So long as he does not prove himself to be another Murdoch, it is well.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “My lord?”

  Bayard knew what was asked of him, just as he knew what his answer ought to be, but his emotions were too clawed to venture where he was not ready to go.

  He did not want to resent Father Crispin’s lack of subtlety. He did. He did not want to be offended by the many attempts to counsel him. He was. He did not want to curse the man for lingering outside Lady Maeve’s chamber. Oh, the temptation!

  Pulling his stepmother’s door closed, he said, “Not now,” and strode around him.

  Father Crispin hastened after him, passed him, and placed himself in Bayard’s path. “As well you know, my lord, ’tis even more imperative that we speak.”

  Beset with one more temptation, that of thrusting the man aside, Bayard nearly lost the battle. However, as if noting his lord’s struggle, Father Crispin reverted to his old self that had been neither biddable nor eloquent.

  “Ah, wee Boursier,” he drawled, the same as he had done when he was a lad of twelve and Bayard only six, “never will ye gain that horse’s back if ye are not willing to risk a bit of throwin’ and kickin’.”

  Twenty-five years past, it had truly been a horse to which Crispin referred, hoping to goad the son of Baron Foucault’s knight into once more braving the mare that had sent the boy flying and nearly trampled him. Now he referred to peace, the throw and the kick being counsel and prayer.

  The harsh words behind Bayard’s teeth retreated, and he lowered his lid. Though it made him feel weak-hearted to wish himself back to easier days when his greatest obstacle was mounting a testy horse, it was of comfort. As well his old friend knew.

  Bayard returned his gaze to Crispin. The man’s eyebrows were hitched above a hooked nose in a very round face better suited to a very round body rather than the slender frame to which not even his habit could add weight.

  The man shrugged shoulders from which tension had eased and smiled just enough to resurrect a mischievous light in eyes more often solemn as befit his profession.

  On such rare occasions, Bayard selfishly wished Crispin were not constrained by holy vows, that his counsel was more practical than biblical, even if the advice proved the same. But the man was what Archard Boursier had made him—a priest. And contentedly so, it seemed. Most of the time.

  The former stable boy had an eye for women, and though he did not act upon his desire, at times his regret over that forbidden him was almost tangible.

  “I am sorry,” he said, the light slipping to the corners of his eyes and going from sight. “I know you are pained at seeing her again, especially on the occasion of returning to Adderstone with your new wife.”

  Bayard nearly scoffed. To be pained, he would have to have feelings for the woman. He did not. He was offended by her presence, and it was that which had caused anger to tear at him.

  “What I am,” he said, “is deeply resentful. What I want is that woman gone.”

  “Understandable.” Crispin folded his long-sleeved arms over his chest. “As difficult as ’tis, my son, methinks there may be good in Lady Constance’s arrival.”

  Bayard’s ire resurfaced, nearly as much a result of Crispin once more assuming the role of God’s voice as his pronouncement. “Good?” he barked.

  The man’s eyes widened, and he glanced toward Lady Maeve’s chamber.

  Chagrined over the necessity of being reminded of his stepmother’s much-needed rest, Bayard lowered his voice. “There is no good in having her here, and do not think to convince me of it with scripture. I am not of a mood for it.”

  The man’s expression wavered, and for a moment Bayard thought his old friend might reappear, but it was the man of God who said, “Pray, listen. Lady Constance could have continued on to Castle Kelling, but she insisted on returning to a place where she also knew pain.” He held up a hand in anticipation of Bayard’s protest. “Aye, pain that was much her own doing.”

  It was true it was not all her own doing, Bayard having long ago accepted his culpability when he had conspired to break the betrothal between Constance and Serle de Arell. But for that, he had all the more reason to believe vengeance had brought her inside his walls.

  “I will not allow her to wedge herself between Elianor and me.”

  “Ah.” A bit of the glint returned to the man’s eyes. “I had begun to wonder about your feelings for the lady, Elianor.”

  “Feelings?” Bayard snapped.

  “Having had occasions to observe you in the company of women, I have only ever known you to be as affected by Lady Elianor as you were by her aunt. Can it be…” There, a bit of a smile. “…you esteem this marriage forced upon you?”

  Bayard had his denial at the ready, but instead asked, “With whom am I speaking—Crispin or Father Crispin?”

  The man sighed. “It ought to be the latter, but I am here as well, my friend.”

  Though Bayard did not want this conversation with either of them, he said, “Then to the latter, I say: I am determined this marriage shall not end the same as the first. To the former, I say: I am hopeful it shall be better than the first.” He started to step around the man.

  Crispin caught his arm—as ever, a strong grip that belied a body more given to bone than muscle. “Give me leave to finish a thought that may make the Verduns’ presence more tolerable.”

  “Speak.”

  “In returning here, ’tis possible Lady Constance seeks forgiveness.”

  Bayard would not argue that. What he would argue was the terms of her quest to be forgiven and, in turn, forgive him, terms with which the priest was acquainted.

  However, before the man could be reminded of the missives that had arrived one each year since Constance’s
departure, Crispin amended, “I, of course, speak of true forgiveness.”

  Among his favorite topics, and at which Bayard did not excel. But Crispin had good reason to hold that virtue dear, for its bestowal had saved his life years ago. Baron Foucault, suspecting his attempts to keep the crown informed of the baronage’s plans were being thwarted by one close to him, had enlisted the stable boy to report Archard Boursier’s goings and, when possible, follow at a distance.

  Crispin’s discovery at a wooded meeting between Archard and the earl, days before the latter moved against Foucault, nearly earned the boy a noose. Being fond of Crispin for the kindness shown young Bayard, Archard had forgiven him and reasoned that he had no choice but to do as Foucault bid. The earl had granted mercy, contingent upon Crispin covertly serving him as he had served Foucault. And so he had.

  Unfortunately, upon Archard’s award of Adderstone, there had been enough resentment from Foucault’s former retainers that the stable boy had come under threat of maiming for his role in overthrowing the old baron. Thus, Archard had sent him away and borne the cost of training him into the priesthood. Years later, following the death of Adderstone’s old priest, Crispin had returned.

  “Therefore,” the man continued, “the question must be asked if you believe yourself capable of forgiving Lady Constance.”

  Might she seek true forgiveness? Grant true forgiveness? Or, as ever, would she hold hostage the truth of that day behind her vow of silence?

  Slowly, Bayard shook his head. “I fear you delude yourself in thinking this time she will not lay out the terms of peace between us. But were it true forgiveness…”

  Crispin waited. And waited. Then he sighed heavily. “We will speak again this eve. In the chapel, aye?”

  Grudgingly, Bayard nodded. “This eve,” he said and left the priest to be about his prayers.

  It was unusual that the lord and lady of Adderstone and their noble guests eschewed the great hall at the evening meal, but when Bayard sent word to El that he had other matters to attend to, she had concluded it was best that all dine in their respective chambers. Thus, while the Boursier and Verdun retainers sat down to a light repast in the hall, platters of viands were delivered to those abovestairs.

  As one was carried past El into the solar outside which she stood, she caught back the words she had been about to speak to Adderstone’s steward whose willingness to assist the new lady of Godsmere had surprised her. Above all, she appreciated his aid in providing accommodations for Magnus and Constance—the former given a chamber belonging to the absent Sir Victor, the latter a chamber usually occupied by two household knights.

  Once the unburdened woman servant exited the solar and hastened down the corridor, El summoned a smile for the steward. “I thank you, Edgar. You have been more kind than you surely believe I warrant.”

  His mouth quirked. “I am a practical man, my lady. Regardless of how you came to be my mistress, I see no reason to be at odds with one who now has my lord’s ear. Thus, as long as you give the baron no cause to throw you off as he did his first wife”—his eyes darted to a door farther down the corridor—“I will give you no cause to regret or undermine my place at Adderstone.”

  Practical and candid. “Then methinks ours shall be an agreeable relationship.”

  “I pray so, my lady.” He bowed.

  Certain he meant to depart, El asked, “I would have my husband join me at meal. Do you think he is still with his stepmother?”

  When Edgar looked up, she directed her gaze down the corridor to the chamber he had earlier told her belonged to Lady Maeve.

  “I would not think so, my lady. Nor would I suggest you seek him there.”

  Though El might have been tempted to tap on the door, she was not sure she would have done so, and now she would not. She did not yet trust Edgar, but his words confirmed her own belief that it would be unwise to approach Lady Maeve.

  “Good eve, my lady.” The steward stepped past her, halted, turned back around. “I am not wont to give advice so early in an acquaintanceship, but I shall chance it.”

  She feared she would not like it, but that did not mean she should not hear it. “I thank you.”

  “Lady Maeve is a fine woman—a good woman—but when she is in one of her turmoils, as she has good cause to be with her daughter held captive and Lady Constance beneath her roof, ’tis best to walk wide around her. Times like these…” He raised his palms. “She remembers who she was ere she was a Boursier.”

  A woman who would have lost all had Bayard’s father not taken her to wife. “I understand.”

  “I fear you do not. But now you are informed.” He pivoted and, his bit of hair lifting in the chill draft that meandered along the corridor, strode toward the stairs.

  When he went from sight, the tension that had climbed through El began to ease, and she yielded to the impulse to lean against the doorframe. She closed her eyes, savored the quiet, and as she settled into it, breathed, “There now.”

  The groan of a door brought her eyes open, and she turned toward the chamber midway down the corridor. “El?” Magnus said, his brow troubled as he strode toward her.

  She pushed off the doorframe and met him partway.

  Gripping her shoulder, he searched her face. “Are you well?”

  “I am but tired. And you? How do you find your accommodations?”

  He scowled. “Do not be distant with me. Regardless that you are now wed to Boursier, I am your kin and shall ever be.”

  She nearly protested, but it was true. She was distancing herself, but wisely so considering what some believed of their relationship. “Apologies, Magnus.” She squeezed his hand on her shoulder—and once more revisited memories of this morn when it was Bayard’s hand beneath her own.

  She lowered her arm to her side. “All is strained,” she said, “and though much of that is of my own doing, with Constance here…”

  He sighed. “I should have insisted she continue on to Kelling. But when she would not be dissuaded, it occurred to me there could be gain in her accompanying me.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “It seemed a good means of testing Boursier—pushing him to lose control in my presence to reveal his true character.”

  That surprised her. Though she knew Magnus was astute, she had not thought him so cunning. “He did not lose control,” she said.

  “In that you are right, though surely you felt the edge upon which he teetered?”

  She had, but she could hardly blame Bayard for going so near it, especially as he had not done so on his own. Magnus had as good as flung him there.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Truly, you feel safe with The Boursier?”

  She looked down, hated that she was ashamed to admit as much and that Magnus would think her more a fool. “Certes, Bayard is no Murdoch.”

  A finger beneath her chin returned her gaze to his. “I am glad, but he does not have to be a Murdoch to be treacherous, El.”

  Years ago, she had reconciled herself with what her uncle had learned of her marriage when she, widowed and homeless, had accepted his offer to live at Castle Kelling. Though she had Agatha to thank for his generosity, the woman having informed him of his niece’s need, there had been a price to pay. Without a care for El’s pride or modesty, Agatha had revealed much of what those two years with Murdoch had cost her lady, though even she could not know the full extent. Magnus and El never spoke of her abuse in more than general terms, but it always made her insides writhe.

  “Bayard is not treacherous—not anymore,” she said, while inside she whispered, If ever he was.

  “I am pleased you think so well of me, my lady,” her husband’s voice sounded from the solar.

  El spun around. He was not in the doorway, but he was inside. How?

  The hidden passageway.

  “If you are done with my wife, Verdun,” he called, “I have need of her.”

  “El?” Magnus rasped.

  Keeping her expression clear
of anger over Bayard’s eavesdropping, she peered over her shoulder at her uncle. “Worry not,” she whispered and crossed to the solar.

  Lit by the fire that had cast off much of the chamber’s chill, Bayard sat in one of two chairs before the hearth alongside the table upon which the servant had placed the tray of viands. Though El could not be certain where he directed his gaze, for his patched eye was in profile, his attention appeared to be on the goblet he cupped in the hand draped over the chair’s arm.

  How long had he been there? She knew he had not been present during her conversation with his steward, for she would have heard his entrance from where she had stood alongside the door. But when Magnus had come out of his chamber, she had moved away from the solar. How much of the exchange with her uncle had Bayard overheard?

  As she reached to close the door, he looked across his shoulder. She expected censure. Thus, its presence on his face did not unnerve her. What did catch her unawares was Magnus.

  “Forgive my intrusion, Baron Boursier.” He put a foot over the threshold. “Though the day has been long for all, I would speak to you of what has transpired—and has yet to transpire.”

  Bayard considered Magnus with the same censure he had shone upon El. “We shall speak of it on the morrow, Verdun.” Despite his relatively placid face, his tone told there would be no argument. “Good eve.”

  Magnus eyed him, then El.

  She inclined her head. “Good eve, Uncle.”

  He sent her a look that told he would be near should she require aid, then strode down the corridor.

  When El heard the thump of the door in its frame, she closed the solar’s door and turned toward Bayard. “How does your stepmother fare?”

  “She is resting now and will likely be recovered come the morrow.”

  “I am sorry she is distressed.”

  “She has cause to be.” He frowned. “Do you know of what cause I speak?”

  El clasped her hands at her waist, in doing so was made more aware of the loose fit of her wedding band. “Doubtless, she detests that you were made a cuckold and sustained the injury you did.”