by Tamara Leigh
“There is that, but more, there is Quintin. She was also injured the day I found your aunt and Serle de Arell abed.” He gestured with the hand that held the goblet, causing the wine within to spill over the rim and onto the rushes. “That bed.”
El glanced at where her marriage had yet to be consummated, alongside which she had slept on a pallet those first two nights before they had departed for Castle Mathe. “I did not know. What happened—?”
“Now you do know, as you should know ’tis no easy thing to have Verduns or De Arells beneath our roof.”
And now there were three Verduns here where there had been none for years.
“Just as it is no easy thing to happen upon one’s current wife alone with another man,” he added.
El stiffened. In previously titling her as the woman to whom he was bound for life, there had been bitterness and regret in his tone, but the addition of the word, current, put more distance—and accusation—between them.
She stepped forward and halted before Bayard. “Magnus and I were only conversing, as well you know.”
“Aye,” he drawled, “conversing.”
Did he insinuate there might have been more to their encounter had he not alerted them to his presence?
“Is it your habit to steal upon others and listen in on their conversations?” she demanded.
Bayard stared at the woman he had riled as he had not intended to do. Jealousy would have to answer for that. And Constance, her sudden appearance having torn memories from his darkest recesses that had trampled the hope extended when he had told El the price of what she had done might not be as high as thought. But perhaps that was good. Perhaps the more painful the reminders of Verdun treachery, the less vulnerable he would be to their schemes.
And the more likely those memories will eat you through, Father Crispin spoke as clearly to him as if he stood here, a reminder that Bayard ought to be in the chapel.
“Is it your habit?” Elianor pressed.
He glanced at the goblet he had taken from the tray, and once more pondered the dark red contents that had yet to pass his lips. “’Tis not,” he overruled the argument that he owed her no explanation. “When I came upon my steward and he relayed your wish to dine with me, my use of the hidden passageway was a matter of expediency, not a means of stealing upon Verdun and you. Thus, the only thing of which I am guilty is of not sooner making my presence known.”
She blinked, and the anger that had tightened her expression eased. “Why did you not?”
“Having happened upon a conversation in which I found myself under discussion, I saw little cause to weigh the right and wrong of gaining insight into matters that concern me.”
“And what insight did you gain?”
“That my unwilling bride feels compelled to defend me. Just as surprising, that her uncle knows more about her relationship with her departed husband than is known to the man to whom she is now wed.”
“You think it evidence my relationship with Magnus is of a carnal nature?”
Jealousy concurred, though the instinct he dared not trust told otherwise. “You say it is not so, but what you shared with one you claim is naught but kin seems much too personal.”
She shook her head. “’Twas not I who told Magnus—” She drew a sharp breath, averted her gaze.
The Elianor whom Bayard wanted to know better once more retreating, he set the goblet on the tray, rose from the chair, and took the stride to her side.
He lifted her chin. “Do not deny me, Elianor. As your husband, I have the right to know that against which you seal your lips—that which makes you fear my touch even whilst you wish it.”
Her lids fluttered, and he found himself holding his breath throughout her struggle, but just when he thought she would refuse him, she said, “It was Agatha who revealed the truth of my marriage to Magnus when she appealed to him to take me in following my husband’s death. I would not have had her do so, but…” She momentarily closed her eyes, and when she opened them, they were moist. “’Tis true that Murdoch abused me, and ever in such a way it could not be known were one to gaze upon me.” A sharp laugh cast her warm breath upon his jaw. “He placed too high a value on my looks to spoil them.”
Though Bayard had guessed as much, his insides convulsed with anger of a depth last felt while he had been chained to a wall. But whereas then it was the barony of Godsmere slipping away from him, now it was Elianor. How was he to put together the pieces made of the one who, God willing, would be mother to his sons and daughters? And how was he to quell this longing to wreak vengeance on a man who, also God willing, now dwelt in the pits of hell?
He returned Elianor to focus, knew from her wide, searching eyes she sensed something of what moved beneath his skin.
Lord, he silently entreated, I should be on my knees—better, my face.
“Bayard?” she said softly.
In a gruff voice, he said, “There are not many men who would consider themselves fortunate to be dead, but I wager Murdoch Farrow does.”
She winced, drew her chin out of his grasp, and took a step back.
Knowing it best to not further inquire after the miscreant, Bayard let the matter be. However, there were other things that needed answers. “You say ’twas Agatha who asked your uncle to take you in. For what did she do so?”
Elianor’s shrug was hesitant. “She has a care for me—is the only one who did whilst I dwelt with Murdoch. If not for her…”
“What?”
“She passed powders to me that rendered him unconscious with little remembrance of the time before. Though I dared not use them often lest he become suspicious, when he was at his worst—drunk or in a rage—I stirred them into his…”
“The same powders you slipped into my drink the night Agatha and you stole me from my bed,” he said low.
“Aye.”
“The same powders Constance gained from her and used upon me whilst we were wed.”
She blinked. “That I did not know.”
He should not be so quick to believe her, but he did. “For that, I cast Agatha out of Adderstone, hoping that once Constance was no longer under her influence, a better marriage we could make.” He drew a deep breath. “I do not know what that witch is about, Elianor. I know only that she is poison.”
She folded her hands at her waist. “And I know only that I owe her.”
“Methinks you are wrong. Like King Edward who makes pawns of our families, she has made a pawn of you.” When she opened her mouth to argue it, he held up a hand. “Regardless of what you believe you owe her, I owe her naught—certainly naught of good will. And I have no intention of allowing her to further befoul my life or the lives of those dear to me.”
“What will you—?”
“—do with her? I have not decided. And do not ask me to, for this day has put me in no state of mind to sensibly determine that one’s fate.”
“I understand,” she begrudged, “But tell me, is she well?”
Bayard counseled patience. “I have not seen her, but it was reported that though she rages less, she is as loud as ever. And that is all I will speak of her, Elianor.” He turned and reached for the goblet to quench his thirst. But the witch was too near in thought, and he once more hesitated over the wine’s red depths.
“’Tis not tainted.” Elianor stepped alongside him. “I vow, it is not.”
He looked down at her and saw in her eyes what seemed desperation. That he believe her?
“Would you have me drink from it first?” she asked.
He lifted the goblet and drained half its contents. “I will leave you now,” he said and set the vessel on the tray.
Elianor laid a hand on his arm. “You will join me at meal?”
“Father Crispin expects me, and I have kept him waiting long enough.” He lifted her hand from him and brushed his lips across the backs of her fingers. “Good eve, Wife.”
El watched him go, wished he would not. Wished…
What do
I wish? She looked to the bed. I wish Constance had never been there. I wish she were not there now. I wish Bayard free of their past. I wish her presence did not have the power to send my husband away from me.
But she had been. She was. He was not. And she did.
Marveling that not so long ago, never would such thoughts have come upon her and cause her eyes to prick with tears, wondering if, perhaps, she was ill of mind, El stared at the foodstuffs.
Out of duty to her hungering belly, she snatched up a piece of cheese. She ate it and several more, took a swallow of wine, and began extinguishing the candles.
Once the chamber was dark except for firelight, she was reminded of that first night when she and Agatha had stolen within—when she had bent near Bayard and seen the glitter of his gaze, when unbeknownst to her, he had taken in her scent. It seemed so long ago they had dragged him from his bed and through the hidden passageway to imprison him in that place to which Agatha was now subjected.
“Agatha,” she whispered, and was tempted to go behind the tapestry and try to find a way into the underground so she might assure the woman to whom she owed much that she would convince Bayard to release her. But that could prove a lie if he refused. Would he? The man she had believed him to be would, but the man he was proving himself to be, the same she wished here with her now—
She shook her head, stepped toward the bed, and halted. She pondered the pallet where she had slept when last she was here, wondered if that was where Bayard expected her to sleep.
She shed her gown. Clad in her thick chemise, she turned back the bed’s fur-lined coverlet and lay down, claiming her place where Bayard would find her when he returned. But how would he feel to look upon her here, where once he had looked upon Constance in the arms of another man? The thought nearly made her scramble onto the pallet.
She pulled the coverlet over her, turned the ring on her finger, and whispered, “’Tis our bed now. Ours,” and yielded to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Agatha of Mawbry hummed. And the nearer the footsteps sounded, the louder she hummed. It was not The Boursier come to her, for the tread belonged to a woman—else a timid man. Regardless, neither ought to be here. Happily, either would serve.
When the torch was lifted to the grate in the door, the dim light that had entered the cell like a slow-moving fog spewed itself against the walls and upon its single occupant.
Pain pricking eyes blinded by days of darkness, Agatha ceased her humming and squinted to see who peered within, grunted, and jerked her face aside. “I am not dead,” she barked out of a throat that felt as if ripped through. “Now get thee in here!”
There came the rattle of iron testing iron. When the correct key engaged the lock’s innards, the resulting click fell as sweet upon Agatha’s ears as honey upon the tongue.
Honey, she mused. How I miss it, but soon I shall coat a spoon with it, suck it clean, and again and again until I decide how best to hurt those whose hurts are due me.
The door swung inward, and the feet of one far too long in coming stepped inside with hesitation that bespoke fear. Deserved fear. But depending upon that one’s identity, forgiveness might be granted—for a time.
Eyes slitted against light too potent to allow Agatha to clearly see the one who would loose her upon the Boursiers and the others who could not know they were next, she said, “Is it you, Lady Elianor?”
The one in the doorway stepped to the side and fit the torch in a sconce.
“Elianor?” Agatha asked again, though the continued silence made her fairly certain this one was not the one named.
In shoes that scraped the earthen floor almost as if the feet resisted being drawn forward, the hooded figure traversed the cell.
“Not Elianor,” Agatha pronounced as her savior crouched beside her.
“It is not,” that one said and dropped the hood around shoulders so lax they stank of defeat.
It took Agatha a moment to recognize the voice, a moment longer to focus on the face. Delight nearly made her crow, but after all she had endured, anger held greater sway.
“You could not have come sooner?” she demanded.
Her savior swallowed, the dry sound of tongue, palate, and throat too little of a balm to keep Agatha from aching to feel that one’s throat between her hands—rather, hand, for it would be some time before she regained use of the less dominant one.
“It was not possible to free you ere this day,” the pitiful one said. “But I am here now, and though ’twas a difficult undertaking, I have secured the keys for your release.”
Agatha thrust her manacled hands forward, and her savior leaned near and gasped at the sight of the left hand that hung limp from one set of iron bands. “Dear Lord, what have you done?”
“Struggled and fought as you have not done. Now make haste!”
As the keys jangled between trembling fingers that searched for one that fit, Agatha considered her bruised and scraped wrist, next its broken hand. Determination had done that—perhaps even a touch of madness. In an attempt to free herself, she had broken several bones, but her hand was too large to slip from the manacle, and the pain too great to wreak further damage. Too, belatedly she had realized that even were she able to free the broken hand, the other would also require breaking and leave her more helpless.
“This one!” her savior exclaimed. Shortly, the manacle fell from the broken hand. As the key was fit into the other, Agatha continued to stare at her maimed limb.
Further proof of the sins of the Boursiers, she told herself and felt a spasm of pride. The hand would never be right, but the other would serve as it had always done, and this one would heal sufficiently to be of some use.
With another click that once more turned Agatha’s thoughts toward the sweetness of honey, the second manacle released.
“Ah.” Agatha raised both hands before her face. In silence complete except for her savior’s shallow breathing, she pondered the differences that were as day to night…right to wrong…good to evil…life to death.
That last summoned a smile to lips so unaccustomed to bowing in that direction that the muscles pained her. But she must become accustomed to smiles, for there would be many more in the days to come. Days that would be dark for the Boursiers. And the De Arells. And the Verduns.
Laughter leapt from her, so coarse she snapped her mouth closed against further expressions of merriment. She was no crone, would not be for many years.
“Agatha?”
She looked back at the one whose face reflected wariness. Once more attempting a smile, Agatha lifted her good hand and patted that one’s jaw, the skin of which had no right to be so soft. Unfortunately, the one who had come for her was a necessary ill—or had been.
Agatha wavered, but though tempted to make the underground this one’s final resting place, such a death might reveal what should not be revealed. Yet.
Her savior drew back, started to rise. “Come. The sooner you depart Adderstone, the better.”
Agatha wrenched that one back down. “First, I must know what has gone whilst I have been in this accursed place.”
“But—”
“Tell!”
And so her reluctant savior did, eliciting from Agatha sprays of spit, barks of anger, and curses so blasphemous Agatha was time and again beseeched to attend to her soul.
Fortunately, all that had gone afoul could be put to rights, Agatha assured herself. For years the three families had suffered loss at her hands as she dwelt amongst them, biding her time while the one who would reap all was groomed to grind them underfoot. But though the plan had been to wait a time longer, and she would have been content to do so, the King’s meddling had changed all. Thus, the end was near. And would be sweeter than the sweetest honey sucked from a spoon.
What sounds were those? Whence did they come? Inside a dream?
As it was darkness El stared into, she reasoned the hiss of voices and rasp of footsteps could not issue from a dream. The corridor, t
hen.
She lifted her lids and swept her bleary gaze around the chamber. Nothing moved in the faint, golden light that was all that remained of the warming fire, and when she turned her head on the pillow, she was as alone as when she had lain down. But surely the sounds were of Bayard—of him returning to share the bed with her.
She looked to the door, but as she waited for it to open, she realized the sounds came from the hidden passageway. Had Bayard ventured into the underground to check on Agatha? And with whom did he now speak?
El told herself to wait—to ask him when he entered—but the voices and footsteps were receding. She turned the coverlet back, rose from the bed, and crossed to the tapestry and slipped behind it.
Pressing an ear to the door, she listened. As thought, the sounds were moving away. Fairly certain she would find the door locked against her, she gasped when her release of the catch caused it to swing inward. Fortunately, it did so without creak or groan.
The keep’s inner walls were lit by a torch, and when she leaned in to peer down the passageway, she saw the light was held aloft by one of two figures moving opposite.
Though tempted to call to Bayard, she knew he would not like that she had breached the passageway. Too, it was possible neither of the figures was her husband. Indeed, they did not look tall or broad enough, and since they had ceased speaking, their identity could not be known from their voices.
El pulled the door closed, only to give rise to a screech of protest. But it was not the hinges that betrayed her. It was the rodent who wriggled free of the door’s pinch.
Before El could retreat, those at the far end spun around.
“Bayard?” El ventured.
The one in front snatched the torch from the one behind. Flame flickering full upon a face that was familiar despite the damage done it during Bayard’s escape from the underground, El gripped the door’s edge to steady herself.
“Aye, ’tis me, free of my prison,” Agatha said in a grating voice similar to that with which Bayard had been afflicted the first few days following his escape from the underground. “And I have not you to thank, have I?”