Baron of Godsmere

by Tamara Leigh

  “How…?” El shook her head. “How did you…?”

  “Stay!” Agatha commanded the one behind as though he or she were a dog, then traversed the passageway with labored steps that evidenced discomfort.

  Though El longed to retreat to the solar and slam the door closed, she owed Agatha too much. Thus, she stepped forward and closed the door lest Bayard chose this moment to return to the solar.

  From the steps that descended toward the underground, a draft of chill air fluttered the hem of her skirts and swept up the backs of her legs. Shivering, she pressed her arms tight to her sides and peered beyond the woman advancing on her to the one surely responsible for Agatha’s release. But that one’s identity could not be known at this distance, it being hooded.

  Agatha halted. Holding the torch to the side, though near enough that it warmed El’s cheek, the older woman lowered her gaze down her lady. “You look well, Elianor. Indeed, too well for one wed to The Boursier.”

  This was not the first frisson of fear El had felt in the woman’s presence, but this one was not as easily dismissed, clambering up her spine and sinking teeth into her neck. Still, she stood firm—until Agatha lifted between them a hand that hung obscenely limp from its wrist.

  El stumbled back. “What happened?”

  “The Boursier, that is what! And you did naught to aid me. Too busy warming his bed, eh?”

  “I—”

  “You no longer believe what he did to your aunt. Do you?”

  At El’s hesitation, she smiled a frightening, broken-toothed smile. “You are of no more use to me, Elianor of Emberly.”

  “Agatha—”

  “Not Agatha!” she rasped. “Aude!”

  One moment, the heat of the torch was upon El’s face, the next, its flame was hard upside her head.

  She strained to hold her feet firm to the floor, reached for something to turn her hands around, felt air slip through her fingers. Too much air. Too far to fall.

  Her cry echoed off the walls, threw itself back at her as she twisted around and threw her hands up to break her fall. The hard landing on her side. The terrible sound of something breaking. The shock that numbed her—though only for a moment. Before she could voice the pain tearing at her insides, darkness descended, the relief it offered so great she could not bring herself to try to hold to her place in the world.

  “That is a broken neck,” Agatha’s voice came to her as if from the mouth of a long tunnel whose light was a mere pinprick. “A fairly satisfying end to a Verdun, do you not think?” Then she began to hum.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  His knees were sore, joints stiff. However, despite time spent with Father Crispin and at prayer, he could not keep his emotions from lurching each time his thoughts lit on Constance who should not be upon the barony of Godsmere…within the walls of Castle Adderstone…just down from the chamber that now belonged to Elianor and him.

  Bayard halted before the solar’s door, considered his squire who had made his bed to the left of it, gripped the handle—and stilled as he questioned the wisdom of going in to his desirable wife. Not only was he determined to give her time to become accustomed to him, but the thought of consummating marriage to his second wife whilst the first slept so near was unsettling.

  Telling himself his fatigue would quickly put him to sleep regardless of whether or not Elianor had taken her place in his bed or once more huddled on the pallet, he entered the chamber.

  The glowing embers upon the hearth revealed she was not on the pallet nor the bed, though the turned back covers of the latter evidenced she had been there. Certain she must have lost her courage and curled up in one of the chairs, he closed the door and started toward them. She was not there.

  “Accursed woman!” he growled and strode to the tapestry she had surely gone behind. Next, he cursed himself for leaving the door to the inner walls unlocked when he had earlier come through and overheard his wife and Verdun’s conversation. Not that Elianor could reach Agatha since the door that accessed the underground was locked, but she would try.

  As expected, he opened the door to chill air. What he did not expect was darkness, certain she would have taken a candle with her. Guessing she must have heard him and put it out, he called, “Elianor!”

  Silence.

  “Enough!” he snapped. “Now!”

  Still nothing.

  Did he underestimate her again? Was it possible she had gained the underground? Or, thwarted, did she explore the passages in hopes of finding another means of reaching the witch? Of course, there were only two ways to access that cell—the stairs to the left and the cavern in the wood.

  Being well-versed in Adderstone’s inners walls, Bayard did not return for a candle but briskly descended the steps. As he neared the landing, he halted. Elianor’s scent was here. More disturbingly, the scent that always called to mind iron and earth. Blood.

  Gripped by fear of a sort he had known in a time so distant he could not recall the occasion, he caught a sound from below. Though faint, it was of breath.

  “Elianor?” Cautiously, he descended the last steps lest he trod upon her. When he reached the landing and his foot nudged something, he dropped to his haunches and let his hands discover that to which darkness blinded him.

  Knowing that how severely Elianor was injured depended on how far she had fallen and what part of her had taken the brunt of the fall, he cautiously worked his hands up her cold, still form where she lay on her side against the wall—bare feet, lower legs, chemise-entangled upper legs.

  When he reached her hips and she remained unresponsive, his fear stepped back in deference to a greater anger than that which he had felt upon discovering she had gone into the passageway. “All for that witch!” he growled.

  She moaned.

  “Elianor!”

  Her breath caught sharply as of one either slow to return to consciousness or incapable of a better response.

  Praying it was the former, he continued his exploration, feeling a hand up her right arm and shoulder, across her throat, and up into her hair on the left side of her head that rested on the floor.

  She drew another sharp breath when his fingers found the swollen gash above her ear—the source of blood.

  Wary of moving her until he knew the extent of her injury, he said, “Awaken, Elianor.”

  She whimpered, whispered, “Bayard.”

  A good sign. Thanking the Lord, he wiped his bloodied fingers on his chausses, then cupped her icy face in his hand. “What hurts?”

  “All,” she croaked.

  “Is anything broken?”

  Her swallow sounded painfully dry. “Not my neck.” A sob escaped her. “Though she wished it so.”

  He nearly probed her meaning, but her injuries were more important. “What, then?”

  “My…” Her teeth clicked as of one chilled. “…arm.”

  The left one, doubtless thrown up to break her fall. He slid his hand down her neck to the shoulder she lay upon, next the arm. She tensed as he probed its upper reaches, cried out when he moved to her forearm.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “I do not know.”

  Aching for however long she had been down here, which could be as many as three hours, he said, “I must needs lift you. When I do, your arm will pain you more.”

  Her hesitation was brief. “Be done with it.”

  He nearly called her brave, but lest anger’s preference for impetuous, defiant, and deceitful usurped his tongue, he said no more.

  He eased her onto her back, and the first note of a scream escaped her before she closed her mouth on it. Thus, further expressions of pain sounded from behind her lips. But there was nothing for it, there being no other way to free her broken arm to position her to be carried up the steps.

  He settled the injured limb atop her torso, and when he lifted her, she was limp. Grateful she found relief in unconsciousness, he carried her up the steps and into the solar.

  “Squire!�
�� he bellowed as he came out from behind the tapestry.

  The door swung open as he lowered Elianor to the bed. “My lord?” The sway in the young man’s body revealed sleep yet clung to him.

  “Send for the physician,” Bayard ordered. At Lucas’s hesitation, he roared, “Now!”

  The squire ran, but before the sound of his retreat was lost in the turning of the stairs, a door was thrown open farther down the corridor and far-reaching footsteps revealed Elianor’s uncle would soon fill the doorway.

  “Bring a torch within, Verdun!” Bayard shouted and turned back to his wife. Though more illumination was needed to know the extent of her head injury, the remains of the fire showed blood upon her dark blond hair.

  As he reached to draw the fur-lined coverlet over her, light rushed into the chamber.

  “What goes?” Magnus Verdun demanded. A torch in one hand, a dagger in the other, he shifted his gaze from Bayard to Elianor. “God’s teeth! What have you done to her?”

  Bayard reached for his sword, but he had unbelted it for prayer and left it in the chapel. Taking his dagger to hand, he strode forward to intercept the other man. “Hear me, Verdun!”

  The only alternative was for the man to start slashing, and that would be of poor effect while he held a torch that, if loosed, would catch the rushes afire. “Upon my word, Boursier,” Verdun said where he halted three feet distant, “I shall spill every drop of your blood.”

  Bayard’s pride bucked at having to defend himself, but for Elianor’s sake, he said, “I did not do this. The blood is from a head injury she sustained during a fall.”

  “What fall?”

  It was almost laughable that neither the savage glint in the man’s eyes, nor the sneer of his mouth made him a frightening being. He was too blessed with good looks. However, there was power in being so misread, for those who did not know him surely mistook him for an unworthy adversary.

  “She stole into the inner passages to aid Agatha,” Bayard said. “I found her at the bottom of the stairs that access the underground where the witch is held.”

  “Bayard,” Elianor choked.

  Dismissing Verdun’s dagger, he returned to her side and, seeing she trembled, drew the coverlet over her.

  As he tucked it around her, she gasped, “Do not, Magnus!”

  Bayard jerked his chin around and found her uncle much too near, dagger at the ready. But before he could move to defend himself, a sob pushed past Elianor’s lips, followed closely by, “My husband did not…do this.”

  Verdun narrowed his gaze. “You are saying you did take a fall?”

  “By Agatha’s hand.”

  Bayard startled. “Agatha?”

  “She struck me…with a torch.”

  “Fool woman! You release that witch and she nearly kills you!”

  Elianor shook her head on the pillow. “I did not let her out.”

  She lied. Had to, for no others would free Agatha.

  “I give you no cause to believe me,” Elianor said in a voice strained with tears, “but the Lord knows I did not do it.”

  “If ’tis true Agatha is no longer in her cell,” Bayard said, “I can think of no other who would release her.” In the next instant, he corrected himself. This night, within his home were many who were too recently his enemy. If Agatha had, indeed, been freed—a seemingly implausible feat for any who lacked knowledge of the inner walls and, more, keys—Magnus Verdun or one of his men could be responsible. Or Constance.

  He ground his teeth. Aye, she whose servant Agatha had first been and who had been well served by the witch, who knew the passages and had once had access to keys that had let Serle de Arell within.

  “I heard voices in the walls,” Elianor continued. “I thought ’twas you, Bayard.”

  “Voices?” Verdun stole the question from Bayard. “Who was with Agatha?”

  When she spoke again, her voice was thready as if consciousness once more slid away. “I know not…did not draw near enough.”

  Bayard struggled against his warrior’s sense that warned he should not linger here, that what he had learned was sufficient to rouse his men and lead a search of the castle. If the witch had not already gone from Adderstone, every moment that passed drew her nearer escape. But first, the physician. Once Elianor was in his care and guards were posted to ensure her safety, he would search out the accursed woman—and whoever aided her.

  “Elianor,” he said, “do you know if that other one was a man or a woman?” If the latter, it could have been her aunt.

  She shook her head, and when she whimpered as though pained, there was an answering sound of distress.

  Bayard looked past Magnus Verdun to where Lady Maeve gripped the doorframe. Eyes wide, she stared at the beautiful woman beside her who was wrapped in a robe, hair down around her shoulders and bare feet upon the threshold.

  “Do not!” he growled, then more loudly, “Dare not step foot in here!”

  Constance shifted her gaze from him to her niece, then to her brother. An instant later, Magnus Verdun strode toward her—wisely so, shielding her not only from Bayard’s wrath but that of Lady Maeve who had never looked so inclined to loose her teeth and nails upon another.

  “Leave the torch!” Bayard ordered.

  The man thrust it in a wall sconce alongside the door, then drew his sister down the corridor, leaving Bayard’s stepmother the only occupant of the doorway that, hopefully, would not be absent the physician much longer.

  “Lady Maeve,” he said, “light the candles.”

  She startled as if slapped, with obvious reluctance stepped inside.

  “How bad is it?” Elianor croaked.

  Bayard looked back at her. Though her lids were tightly closed, tears spiked her lashes. “The physician will soon be here and set your arm aright,” he said, anger once more rising at the possibility both promises could easily be transformed into lies.

  “I cannot feel all of it.”

  For now, a blessing, but later…

  “Agatha thought ’twas my neck. Ere all went black, I heard her say—” She sobbed.

  The blood slamming through Bayard’s veins made him long to be inside the walls, outside the walls, wherever the hunt for the witch might take him.

  He glanced at the empty doorway, and as he silently vowed that if the physician did not appear in the next minute he would shout down the castle, Elianor’s uncle strode inside.

  “Rouse your men and mine, Verdun,” Bayard barked. “If that vile thing is yet near, we shall root her out.”

  Verdun halted, nodded, and withdrew.

  Forcing a breath deep to calm himself, Bayard lowered to the mattress edge and laid a hand to Elianor’s cheek. “What did Agatha say?”

  The convulsions upon which her sobs were borne eased, and she lifted her lids enough for the light in the chamber to sparkle in her eyes. “She saved me from the worst of Murdoch. I thought she was… Not my friend. Something else.”

  Something else, indeed, Bayard seethed. “Tell me.”

  “I heard her tell that other one ’twas a satisfying end to…” She swallowed loudly. “…a Verdun.”

  Then that other one who had freed Agatha had not been a Verdun? Not Constance?

  “Why does she hate me so?” She bemoaned. “She must know I would have freed her were it possible. Why?”

  “Because that one is evil,” Lady Maeve said, coming alongside the bed with a candle whose flickering light revealed Elianor’s hair was singed near her left temple where the torch had struck her. “Ponder it night and day, but ever the answer shall be that there are some whose only excuse for the ill they do others and themselves—” She wrenched her words to a halt.

  Bayard looked to her and saw she had tightly closed her eyes. But before he could express concern, she turned aside, set the candle on the table, and continued, “The only excuse for the ill they work is the devil in them. Certes, Agatha of Mawbry is among those into whom the infernal one has poured his foul breath.”

/>   He understood his stepmother’s feelings, for she also believed Agatha was as much at fault for the cuckolding as Constance. That act of infidelity had led to the bloody confrontation into which Quintin had inserted herself and paid an unseemly price—a price that could prove even greater once she wed.

  “I am a fool,” Elianor said softly.

  “Nay,” Bayard said, “you are not.”

  “I am. After what she did the night we were to release you…” Once more her lids lowered. “I should have run when I saw she was the one inside the walls.”

  Bayard glanced at his stepmother who had not moved from alongside the bed and whose gaze was upon Elianor.

  “What did Agatha do that night?” he asked, loathing that as she once more teetered toward unconsciousness he must push for further insight to aid in bringing the witch to ground.

  Elianor’s lids fluttered. “Her hate was so great, I did not trust her to release you.”

  Her words further muted by sounds upon the stairs—blessedly, the physician’s high-pitched, nasal voice among them—Bayard leaned closer. “Aye?”

  “I insisted on accompanying her…she struck me senseless…took the keys.”

  That night was still near enough that he remembered its every detail. Now he understood the reason Agatha alone had appeared before him in the cell, Elianor’s belated arrival that was preceded by her urgent cry for the witch to cease, Agatha’s lament over not being allowed to kill him while it was still possible.

  “Her hand,” Elianor said so low he was not certain he heard right.

  “Aye?”

  “Broken.”

  Then the witch had snapped her bones to try to free herself. He was not surprised. After all, rats gnawed off limbs to escape traps.

  “She said…not Agatha.”

  He frowned. “I do not understand.”

  “Aude?” Elianor slurred.

  Before he could ask her meaning, she drew a sharp breath and said, “I will come back to you, Bayard?”

  Wondering what caused his heart to feel as if wrenched from his chest, he said, “Soon, Elianor,” and brushed his mouth across hers. “Now rest.”