by Tamara Leigh
Elianor’s eyes widened further, the wariness in those green depths turning stricken.
“And what selfless thing does she ask in return?” He recalled the tersely written parchments Father Crispin had finally convinced him to put to the flame. “Forgiveness. But not godly forgiveness. Nay, forgiveness that requires I seek to lift the penances the Church levied on her and her lover, thus allowing them to once more love.”
Constance thrust to her feet and swung around to face Bayard. “What?” she snarled, eyes moist, teeth bared. “Only I am to forever pay the price of the wrongs we inflicted on each other?” Her voice broke, and she clapped a hand to her throat, then jabbed a finger toward Elianor. “While you happily bed my niece and get her with children, I am to pass lonely night after lonely day, knowing no ease, no hope, nothing at all?”
Bayard stared at her. Though her features had matured, she still appeared very much the woman he had wed five years past. She was not. And, unexpectedly, he felt something like regret at the changes wrought in this beautiful, caged bird—but only for that moment before she stepped toward him between the chairs and spat, “Four years of my suffering is not enough to satisfy The Boursier? What is it you want? More blood for blood?”
She should not have said that last, for it thrust Quintin to mind, the innocent in all this, causing words of accusation and anger and all things foul to hurtle toward his tongue. But as was Father Crispin’s habit, even when not present, he spoke to Bayard.
Act as God would have you act. Be as God would have you be. Forgive as—
In once more rejecting that last, so heightened was Bayard’s resentment that he might have rejected all if not that Elianor rose behind her aunt and leveled beseeching eyes upon him.
If naught else, for her, he told himself. And, perhaps, she will truly come to trust you. And if he and Constance found some kind of peace, then all the more blessed it would be.
Ache in his hands alerting him to the fists he had made of them, he opened his fingers and determined he would act and be as God wished. Hopefully, forgiveness of Constance—godly forgiveness—would one day follow.
He returned his gaze to her. “You are right.”
She stared, then blinked rapidly as if to assure herself she was still of this world.
“We must both bring that day to a close.” He shifted his aching jaw. “But I make no promises, other than that I shall try.”
She dragged her teeth across her lower lip. “And Serle?”
“No promises,” he repeated and reached to Elianor. “If you are done here?”
She stepped around her aunt and slid her hand into his.
As he turned her toward the door, he was struck by how Elianor and he must appear and surprised by a pang of sympathy for Constance’s plight that he would not have expected in light of the price Quintin had paid and might pay the remainder of her life. But there it was, accompanied by guilt that he might look forward to each day and night that lay ahead.
As they neared Verdun, Bayard saw his long-time adversary’s gaze was fixed on Constance, though it did not seem anger with which he regarded her. Disbelief? Disappointment? Regardless, there were things that must be spoken between brother and sister.
And husband and wife, Bayard allowed, glancing at Elianor as they exited the chamber. From what he had heard of her conversation with Constance, she was perceptive in guessing there was more to what was required of Bayard beyond words of forgiveness, but she had not truly believed him innocent of abuse as claimed on the night past.
They traversed the corridor in silence, and when he led her into the solar and closed the door, she turned to him and said, “You are displeased with me.”
Though he knew it made one vulnerable to be so easily read, a part of him was gladdened that she sensed his emotions. “I should not be, for ’twas foolish to believe you trusted me enough that you would not pursue an audience with your aunt.”
Hurt flashed in her eyes. “You think I sought to verify your innocence.”
“Did you not?”
Now anger, and when she spoke, her voice was sharp, though its edges did not cut as deeply as when first they had met under circumstances so dire there had seemed no hope for them. “The only thing of which I may be accused is heeding the summons Constance delivered by way of Rollo.”
Bayard frowned a moment ahead of understanding. That was the message the man-at-arms regretted delivering.
“Having previously asked to speak with her,” Elianor said, “I could not then ignore her. But I would have you know I went to her only that I might tell her I no longer required an audience—that I well enough knew the man I had wed.”
Did she speak true? Or only what she knew he wished to hear? Bayard delved her gaze that was without waver, but not righteous rancor.
“And that, Husband, is what I did. Had my aunt not admitted she had hoped to use me against you, I would have departed. Thus, you happened upon us conversing of things past and present and thought first to believe the worst of me.”
Bayard silently berated himself. And more chastisement was due, since what she told made more sense than that Constance had willingly confirmed his innocence. Whatever words had passed between the two before he had come unto the chamber, honesty had been forced upon his first wife by Elianor’s refusal to believe that with which Constance had hoped to bargain.
Bayard sighed. “So I did.”
He heard the catch of her breath and guessed she had not expected him to so easily concede to her innocence. “Then you also…” Now her gaze wavered. “You also see ’tis you who are not ready to trust?”
He settled his hands to her taut shoulders and drew her toward him. “I do, and I am sorry for it.” He lowered his forehead to hers. “Pray, forgive me. If not now, later.”
As she stared up at him from beneath the edge of her veil, the green of her eyes began to yield to the dark of her pupils. “’Tis done,” she said. “And, I suppose, it will be done time and again on both sides, since we have not much experience with trust. But we shall learn it, aye?”
Bayard’s heart expanded in his chest, and once more he was stirred with pity for Constance. Pushing aside thoughts of her, focusing on the one before him now, he said, “So we shall.”
She laid a hand to his jaw. “I thank you for awakening me this morn.”
Not how he had wished to awaken her, but during their lovemaking, she had been all startles and quakes and tremblings, and often he had sensed her responses were as much born of fear as pleasure. Thus, it was too soon to pursue further intimacy.
He lowered his gaze to her mouth, decided a kiss would not be amiss, and pressed his lips to hers.
Whether oblivious to the damp and dirt of him, or that she did not mind, Elianor sank against him, and when she rose to her toes to deepen the kiss, he pulled her nearer.
“My arm!” she gasped.
He drew back, grimaced. “Forgive me. To hold you is so sweet, I forget what Agatha has wrought.” And for which she would pay in full. Indeed, rooting her out was uppermost in his mind such that he and his men had lingered at each village long enough to learn if the witch had been sighted. Fortunately, so memorable a figure was she that those who had never laid eyes upon her would know her from the description. Unfortunately, none had claimed to cross paths with her.
“Bayard,” Elianor said with urgency. “There are things my aunt told of Agatha that you must needs know.”
He inclined his head. “Let us speak of them while I change my clothes, for if you have not noticed, I am near wet to the bone and most foul.”
“You were moving snow again?”
“Nay, that was left to others while my men and I visited the villages.”
She tilted her head questioningly.
Unfastening the brooch that held his mantle closed, he strode past her toward the hearth and said over his shoulder, “Even if we suffer no more snow, what has fallen will likely prevent those from the outlying villages from journeying
to Adderstone for the Christmas celebration five days hence.” He draped the mantle over the warming frame, bent, and removed his splattered boots. “Hence, now that their needs are known to me, I shall send supplies and foodstuffs and gifts so they will yet be blessed on that joyous day.”
When he straightened, Elianor stood before him, something like wonder on her face. “’Tis hard to believe it was not so long ago I first looked near upon you in the market.”
He hearkened back to it. “I remember the day. And the woman who gave her wrathful gaze to me from beneath a shawl too heavy for such uncommonly warm weather.”
Her mouth curved. “I thought a merciless heart beat in your breast, was certain you were kin to the night—a beast.”
“A one-eyed beast.” He said it lightly, yet still it grated.
Her smile drifted away. “I am sorry for that.”
“Neither have my words always been kind, and for that I apologize. Should we not put it behind us?”
She nodded.
He dragged his tunic off, and she took it and placed it on the warming frame. When she came back around, he handed her his chausses. Though he yet wore his long undertunic, she blushed prettily and turned away. While she arranged his chausses on the frame, he retrieved his robe from the bed and belted himself into it.
As he had known he would, he remembered all of Elianor when it had been her body warmed by the garment. But it was better not to think there. Not now.
Shifting his thoughts to that which held no appeal other than finding an end to the depravity, he returned to the hearth and settled into the chair opposite the one he gestured for Elianor to take—grudgingly, since he preferred her in his arms.
“Now, Agatha,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Constance.
El looked to where Bayard had lowered into the chair beside hers. Like others who had paused in the midst of settling down to an early supper, he had gone still. And as evidenced by the diminishing din, more were taking note of the woman who had stepped off the stairs into the great hall.
Seeing her husband’s nostrils flare, El said, “Bayard?”
The gaze with which he followed Constance’s progress shifted, but rather than toward El, he looked to his left where his stepmother sat. Face lowered, intent on her hands, she slowly slid the fingers of the right over the left—as yet, oblivious, but not for much longer now that the hall was silent except for whispers and murmurs.
It was the loud scrape of a bench that lifted Lady Maeve’s head and carried her gaze to Magnus. As he strode the length of the lower table from which he had pushed back, she frowned, then blinked as if slowly awakening.
The moment she caught sight of the woman who advanced on the dais, she drew a sharp breath, and on the exhale hissed, “What does she here?”
Bayard remained unmoving, and El wondered what he warred over. He had said he would try to make peace with his first wife, but was this too much too soon, especially in light of his stepmother’s reaction?
Dear Lord, El silently prayed, let not words or actions further wound those present.
Magnus came alongside his sister, put his arm through hers, and drew her to a halt two strides from the dais. Though his face was as grimly set as Bayard’s, he said as if nothing untoward had occurred, “Baron Boursier, my sister and I thank you for your hospitality.”
After a long moment, Bayard said, “I am glad we could accommodate you, Baron Verdun…Lady Constance.”
The wife who no longer was raised her chin higher. “I am welcome in your hall, Baron Boursier?”
He inclined his head. “You are welcome to join your brother at table.”
It seemed as close to a welcome as she would get. But restrained though it was, it was not well received by Lady Maeve whose pale face colored and fingers dragged their nails over the tablecloth.
Though both Magnus and Constance surely witnessed the woman’s agitation, they turned and started toward their table.
Once they were seated, Father Crispin rose, beseeched God to guide all in thoughts and words and actions, then blessed the meal. Barely had he regained his seat than the servants surged forward.
With the resumption of the din of those who hungered for conversation as much as food, El leaned toward Bayard.
However, his stepmother captured his attention ahead of her.
“Bayard!” the lady protested. “God’s mercy, what do you?”
He covered her restless hands with his much larger one. “God’s mercy,” he gave her words back to her. “That is what I do. It is time.”
Bitter laughter. “Because your life is righting itself? What of my life? More, what of Quintin’s?”
“My lady—”
She snatched her hands free. “’Tis one thing to forgive that woman for what she did to you, another to forgive her for what she caused to be done to my Quintin. That, you have no right to do, Bayard Boursier.”
El glanced around the hall at those who carried on as if the happenings at the high table did not warrant their interest. Not even her uncle and aunt sought to satisfy their curiosity.
Ignoring the servant who appeared and reached a pitcher to his lord’s goblet, Lady Maeve continued, “No right at all, especially whilst you are content to allow your sister to remain De Arell’s prisoner.”
Once wine was poured for all and the servant moved away, Bayard said in a tight voice, “I have told you, had I feared Quintin was in danger, I would have done whatever was required to bring her out of Castle Mathe. But not only did she assure me Griffin de Arell had done her no harm despite her attack upon him, I did not find the Baron of Blackwood to be without honor—disagreeable, aye, but I believe she is safe and suffers no discomfort in the quarters given her. Too, not only is Sir Victor with her, but lest you forget, De Arell is to be her husband.”
Lady Maeve stood so suddenly her chair rocked, causing the serving girl who had placed a trencher of stew between Bayard and El to hasten from the dais as if for fear she might be the recipient of her lady’s wrath.
In a voice that trembled with nearly as much violence as her body, Bayard’s stepmother said, “No matter your assurances, my daughter is not safe there.”
An ache in El’s hands alerting her to how tightly she clasped them, she loosed her fingers and, guessing Bayard was as aware as she of the lessening din, waited to see how he would respond.
“As promised, Lady Maeve,” he measured out his words, “when the weather warms sufficiently to allow a day’s journey, I shall seek my sister’s release that she might abide at Adderstone until she weds.”
The lady showed her teeth. “If anything happens to her, never will I forgive you.” She pointed at the lower table where Magnus and Constance dined. “Just as I shall never forgive that one.”
Bayard stood and in a firm voice, said, “I will escort you to your chamber, my lady.”
His stepmother jerked back. “I would not think to inconvenience you, Baron Boursier.” She turned and marched across the dais.
Bayard remained standing. In contrast to the others who clearly struggled to keep their eyes from straying amid muted conversations, he watched her cross the hall and ascend the stairs.
“I am sorry,” El said when he resumed his seat.
He drew the trencher between them, handed her a spoon, and nodded for her to choose the first morsel. “You wish to ask me about Quintin.”
She scooped up a piece of venison drenched in a sauce that wafted the scent of rosemary. “You told that she was also injured the day you found my aunt with Serle de Arell.”
He inclined his head. “That is but the start of the tale.”
“Then I shall trust you to tell me when you think I should know.”
He considered her as she slid the spoonful in her mouth. “You should know, Elianor, but our chamber is not the place for the telling.”
Because that was where it had happened? Just as it was where he had lost an eye and Serle de Arell an arm?
A surprise, but not an unwelcome one, for there was something appealing about once more being out of doors with him on a chill, starry night. And she knew what it was—his kiss in the wood following her attempt to escape him en route to Castle Mathe. A kiss when the man she had feared him to be would have used a fist to subdue her.
She smiled. “I will be ready, Husband.”
It was not starry, but it was, indeed, chill. And blessedly still—not even a breeze to make the freezing air more deeply felt.
As El huddled in Bayard’s mantle, she was warmed not only by its fur lining, but memory of his first kindness when he had sent for the garment in response to the chill she had taken while speaking vows in Thomasin’s name. Now here Elianor Boursier contentedly stood with her husband upon Adderstone’s outer wall, face tilted up to watch the slow-moving clouds filter moonlight.
“To tell of Quintin,” Bayard finally said, his words changing the shape of the mist he breathed out, “I must begin with that day.”
El turned toward him and, by the light of torches spaced along the wall, saw his expression had gone grim.
“Nay,” he said, “further back so you may judge me accordingly.” There was regret in his voice as if wary of that judgment.
Seeing his gloved hand curl into a fist on the iced embrasure before which they stood, El stepped nearer and laid her gloved hand atop his. “’Tis in the past, Bayard, and after the tale is told, there it will return. And stay.”
He considered their hands, loosed his clenched fingers, and set his gaze upon the bordering wood with its snow-frosted evergreens and leafless, skeletal oaks. “I was the one who made that day possible, but so angered was I by Constance’s betrayal and all the bloodshed and loss, it was long ere I was able to accept the greater portion of responsibility.”
He returned to silence, but did not linger there. “When Serle de Arell and Constance were betrothed as children, their union was not deemed a threat to the Boursier family. However, as the conflict between all our families grew, on the few occasions the Verduns joined with another, they chose the De Arells over the Boursiers, doubtless because of the betrothal. Increasingly concerned that the permanent joining of De Arells and Verduns would be detrimental to our family, my father decided something must be done.”