by Tamara Leigh
Archard Boursier who had led the way in betraying their liege, Baron Denis Foucault.
“Shortly after he began to ail, he offered Rand Verdun a better match for his daughter—marriage to the Boursier heir. I resisted, more for my interest in another lady whose beauty had captivated me than the wrong of it.” He looked sidelong at El. “Beauty is a weakness of mine.”
It was one of the reasons he had given for choosing to wed Thomasin—an attempt to combat that failing.
El smiled lightly. “Obviously, you had not yet laid eyes upon my aunt.”
“Nay, but one glimpse of her changed all. Though she discouraged me by making no secret of her love for Serle, I ignored that her heart lay elsewhere, justifying my pursuit of her with the certainty I would make a better husband and she would come to feel for me as she felt for Serle. Though it took effort to convince her father that marriage into the Boursiers was more desirable than honoring his agreement to wed his daughter to De Arell’s landless second son, especially as Magnus was opposed to breaking his sister’s betrothal, I gained my prize.”
Another long pause. “On our wedding night, I discovered Constance had given her virtue to Serle.”
As Constance had earlier revealed to El.
Bayard captured El’s gaze. “I was angered, but I raised no hand to her. I stayed away for days, and once I cooled, I determined I would give her time to forget Serle. For over a month, we were not intimate again, not only to ensure it was I who sired any child she bore, but that we might begin to know each other.”
Our Bayard can be all consideration, Constance had said.
“When she took me to our bed again, I knew her desire was distant from mine, that she but paid the marital debt, but I thought it possible we would grow content together.”
Of a sudden, he seamed his mouth, and it was then El glimpsed what he had sensed—the man-at-arms making his rounds of the wall walk. When the guard passed by with a nod at his lord and was many yards distant, Bayard continued.
“I should have heeded my sire. He warned that Agatha exerted more influence over Constance than a maid ought to and was too often in her lady’s company, making it difficult for my wife to form attachments with Lady Maeve and Quintin. He told me to watch Agatha, and I did, but not closely enough, and less so when the duties of the barony fell fully upon me following his passing.”
Feeling Bayard once more form a fist beneath her hand, El was not surprised when he loosed a growl. “It was almost a year ere I discovered Agatha had been drugging my wine so my wife would suffer fewer of my attentions, and I do not doubt Constance used those opportunities to meet with Serle in the underground.”
As El had earlier related to him of what her aunt had revealed of Agatha’s role in destroying their marriage.
“I expelled Agatha,” he continued. “Calling hell down upon me, the termagant left Adderstone—or so I believed.” His grunt was more weary than bitter. “Though no greater regret had I than that of wedding a woman who longed for another, I knew the Church would grant an annulment only at great cost that could empty Godsmere’s coffers. Thus, I endeavored again to make the marriage right, and Constance agreed she would try. For the two months she was free of Agatha’s influence, she warmed toward me, and I thought we could make something good of my error.”
He looked out across the darkened land before Adderstone. “The day of my departure for London, I lingered abed and made love to my wife. Never before had she been so responsive.” He released a billowing mist. “But it was not my name she put in my ear. It was his. Afterward, she fell to sobbing and begged my forgiveness. I could not give it, and so I left Adderstone earlier than planned, and it was hours ere my ire eased sufficiently to allow me to think clearly—and accept my wife would never stop yearning for another. Determined to find a way to release her from marriage, I turned back to Adderstone to tell her of my intentions and send her home to her brother to await the undoing of what should not have been done. You know what I found.”
“I know,” El whispered.
“My shouts hastened Father Crispin to the solar, and as he pleaded for me to sheathe my sword, Serle gained the time needed to bring his own sword to hand. We clashed, and it was soon apparent my opponent was deficient in wielding a sword and would pay the highest price for bedding another man’s wife.”
Bayard shifted his jaw. “I was not expecting Constance to do more than cry and plead, but she came at me with a meat dagger, so desperate to save the man she loved that she stepped into the midst of our bloodlust. I thrust her aside, so though I am responsible for the bruises and abrasions she allowed your uncle to believe were caused by my fists, it was her fall upon the hearth that marked her—and may have preserved her life.”
Of course, El thought. It could be no other way.
“It was to my detriment,” Bayard continued, “for I left myself open long enough for Serle’s blade to seek my neck. Blessedly, my reflexes caused his blow to fall across my face, taking my eye rather than my life.”
El ached for this man she had once thought unworthy of ache in any measure.
“It was that scene Quintin came upon—my raging, my blood. Just as Constance gave no thought to the danger of coming to Serle’s aid, Quintin gave no thought to coming to mine. Near blind and unaware of her presence, I defended myself against Serle’s next attack, and it was the sweep of my sword that cut my sister.”
“Oh, Bayard,” El breathed, realizing here was the reason he had been so angry when she had placed herself between his sword and Magnus’s on the training field.
“Aye, ’twas I who wounded her. And as she cried out, all I could think was to avenge whatever ill had befallen her. That is when I took Serle’s sword arm.”
El recalled Lady Maeve’s ill-spoken wish that Bayard had, indeed, abused Constance—surely so her aunt would have been sufficiently cowed that never would she have cuckolded Bayard. Hence, her daughter would not have suffered as she must have done. Fortunately, it could not have been too terrible an injury with which she was afflicted, for the woman had seemed entirely in possession of her sour-tempered self when El had been in her presence at Castle Mathe.
Not until Bayard pulled her against his side did El realize her teeth were chattering.
“There is more snow upon the air,” he said.
Was there? No sooner did El question that which could further delay Magnus and Constance’s departure than she felt the air quiver as if it gathered together its stores of ice.
“We should return to the keep,” Bayard said.
“Not yet,” she protested.
He wrapped his arms around her. Only when her teeth quieted and his warmth had soothed away her shivering, did he speak again. “I would have killed Constance’s lover had Father Crispin not taken me to the floor moments ahead of the arrival of my men. And so Serle’s life was preserved, and when he recovered sufficiently, the Church sent him on an extended pilgrimage to atone for his sins, while your aunt was sent to live out her life at Ellesmere Abbey.” He drew back to meet her gaze. “Do you think the punishment too grave, Elianor?”
El recalled her aunt’s desperation to also be given a second chance as Bayard had been given. “It seems that just as all are at fault to some degree, all have suffered long enough. I know it was wrong of Constance to try to use me to force you to act on behalf of Serle and her, but the ill is in the past, is it not? Done.”
His jaw clenched. “’Tis not done. At least, we cannot be certain of it.”
“I do not understand.”
“That is because you have not asked after Quintin’s injury.”
El blinked. “Although she and I are of brief acquaintance, I assumed her injury could not be so dire that it yet afflicts her as do the injuries Serle and you sustained.”
“Her injury is unseen, Elianor. According to the physician, it may afflict her all the days of her life.”
El waited.
“My blade pierced her lower abdomen,” Bayard fina
lly said, “and if she is able to conceive at all, a pregnancy could prove fatal once her womb grows large with child.”
“I am sorry,” El said. What he told explained much, not only Lady Maeve’s hatred of Constance and Quintin’s chill reception of the woman’s niece, but it accounted for Bayard’s struggle to forgive his first wife. And, likely, he also struggled to forgive himself.
He groaned. “Do you know how many times I wished I had not turned back to Adderstone that day?”
A thousand times, El guessed.
“Thus, it was no great feat for Quintin to convince me to break her betrothal years ago, determined she would not wed. And now King Edward requires that she make a marriage.”
To Magnus had El’s actions not changed the course Bayard had set. “I see,” she said. “Though ’tis good she is to marry De Arell, for he already has an heir, the danger is not past. If she conceives…” She shook her head. “Still, it is not certain a pregnancy could end wrong.”
“Certain enough to fear for my sister’s life, and so you understand Lady Maeve’s distress and why she cannot bear to keep company with Constance.”
“And the reason your tolerance of my aunt is intolerable to your stepmother.”
“She believes I betray her and my sister.”
“Then you are to allow her desire for revenge to supplant forgiveness that is good and right?”
“It is a hard place in which I find myself, Elianor. I wish an end to these tainted years, but at what cost? Lady Maeve may not have bore me, but she raised me, and well. And I care too much for my sister to not consider how my choices affect her.”
El raised her hand to his cheek, felt his cold flesh through her glove. “I am here with you in that hard place, as I will be here with you no matter whether you turn right or left.”
He searched her gaze. “I believe you are, though I yet marvel how it can be.”
She smiled. “Methinks Father Crispin would explain away your confusion with one word—rather, name. God.”
Bayard slowly nodded.
“And now is the tale all told?” El asked.
“The largest pieces. A good beginning.”
El rose to her toes. “My lips are cold. Will you not warm them, Husband?”
He hesitated, and she feared she had erred in inviting an intimacy at such a time as this, but he lowered his head. And when he drew away, the heat of his kiss had moved down and down again, all the way to her toes.
This eve, he will make love to me again, she told herself. And perhaps the pleasure will be greater than the absence of pain. Perhaps I will feel something of what he felt with me. Perhaps.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Christmas Eve, and still there was no break in the weather long enough to allow Magnus to safely journey home with his sister. And until he did, Lady Maeve made it clear with her self-imposed seclusion that she would not return belowstairs.
Though El wished the woman did not continue to be so deeply affected by what had befallen her daughter years past that she could not bear to be in Constance’s presence, she understood. If the physician was correct, Lady Quintin’s arms would ever be empty of children born of her and there would be no grandchildren about Lady Maeve’s skirts.
El had not realized she pressed a hand to her own abdomen until pain shot up her healing arm. Turning her thoughts off the path they warily tread, she chose instead the path of gratitude.
Though she would not have Lady Maeve keep to her chamber, there was good in it. Her withdrawal from the household allowed El to more firmly establish herself as Godsmere’s new lady without servants first seeking their former lady’s permission. Thus, the efforts of those who had done El’s bidding these past days had set the room aglow.
Standing at the end of the hall opposite the raised dais, El gazed upon those things she had called into being in preparation for the morrow’s celebration of God becoming man.
At Castle Kelling, Magnus had allowed her a free hand in transforming the comparatively drab hall into a festive place, but it was more easily accomplished at Adderstone, an extravagantly constructed and furnished castle meant to reflect Baron Denis Foucault’s status. Now it was a reflection of Bayard Boursier—and his new wife.
Fragrant boughs of pine fashioned into swags draped the enormous beams and shuttered windows. Arrangements of ivy, mistletoe, and holly decorated the heavily embroidered cloth that covered the high table, the immense cupboard whose shelves brimmed with silver platters, plates, and goblets, and the intricately carved sideboards that boasted pewter bowls and tankards.
More tapestries had been hung, as well as banners displaying the red and gold of the Boursiers. A fearful variety of weapons—swords, maces, daggers, a ceremonial pike whose grip boasted jewels—had been cleaned and polished and remounted upon the back wall of the arched alcove immediately visible to visitors upon entering the keep. But perhaps most beautiful were the stately iron candleholders that stood in the four corners of the hall and on either side of the high table. Fit with clusters of candles whose wicks burned bright, it was almost magical.
El gave a soft, disbelieving laugh that she was mistress of this. More, that its master felt much for her—Elianor of four notes, not three. She could not be happier.
The breath went out of her, but she drew it back in and tried to direct her thoughts to something that would tempt her toward a smile rather than the nibbling of her lower lip.
It was no use. Though it was selfish to want more, she could be happier. Each morn that moved the castle inhabitants nearer Christmas, Bayard awakened her with a kiss before leaving the solar. But kisses and embraces were the only intimacies they had shared since the consummation of their marriage four nights past. And with the passing of days, El worried all the more for his lack of interest in collecting on the marital debt.
She hoped it was not anything she had done, such as blurting that his lovemaking had not hurt—or anything she had not done, such as being unable to feel what he felt. But though she told herself it was surely a result of Bayard’s concern over his stepmother’s refusal to leave her chamber and his frustration over the weather preventing him from retrieving Quintin and making this season of joy difficult for the villagers in the outlying areas, she always came back to Elianor Boursier. Another Verdun whose passion for her husband was surely seen as lacking.
Tasting blood, El released her teeth’s hold on her lower lip. She would broach the matter with Bayard—this eve when he lay down with her.
As she stepped forward, further stirring the scents of herbs cast upon the rushes, the doors to the great hall opened, admitting chill air that rippled her skirts, fluttered the banners and tapestries, and caused the candlelight to jump.
Alarmed that both doors had been thrown wide without a care for the loss of heat, El turned toward the porter. And halted when she saw the man had stepped aside to make way for those who struggled beneath the greater part of a tree.
“We’ve the Yule log, milady,” said a scrawny fellow who appeared to be contributing to the effort as much as the three others whose bodies were obviously better suited to the task.
El inclined her head. “I thank you.”
Relieved when the porter closed the doors, causing the cool air hastened in by the gray, lowering day to settle, she eyed the log as it was carried past. Bayard had promised to send one of a size that would sustain a fire from Christmas Eve well into Christmas Day until it was entirely consumed as was tradition. And this one surely would, for it was no green thing, likely seasoned for months for this occasion.
A memory rose of Murdoch raging over the smoke of a Yule log too recently cut, but she pushed it away. Watching the men who cleared a path through the rushes down to the floorboards as they moved toward the stone floor of the hearth, she wished it were as easy for Bayard to push away her increasingly visible aunt.
Sitting to the right of the hearth as she had done for several hours while El worked around her to prepare for the evening meal, Cons
tance lifted her head from her embroidery to consider the log that would be lit after a supper that would be simple compared to the morrow’s feast.
Reminded of the menu over which she and the cook had labored days past, El determined she would confirm the man had acquired all the foodstuffs needed to make the Christmas meal feed all, including those who lived in the town outside Adderstone’s walls. Certes, it would be crowded in the great hall, but joyously so.
Once the log was lowered before the fireplace, into which it would be rolled, El invited the chill-dampened men to follow her to the kitchen to revive themselves with drink.
The imposing Rollo close on her heels, she led them down the corridor and into the room that was so heated by preparations for the evening meal she felt her cheeks redden and knew her garments would soon cling.
While a kitchen lad ladled up mugs of hot cider for the men, the cook assured El all was in order for this eve’s supper and the Christmas Day feast.
When she and Rollo returned to the hall, it was not as she had left it. Into it had come more chill air, doubtless ushered in by the score of men who stomped their feet and rubbed their hands, the majority having gathered at the hearth from which Constance was now absent.
As Rollo came alongside El, she noted the reason he had turned more protective. Not all the men in the hall were Bayard’s and Magnus’s. A half dozen or more were unrecognizable.
“What goes, milady?” Rollo rumbled.
Tamping down alarm with reason—that Bayard’s men would be on alert if the strangers posed a threat—El sent her gaze around the hall and saw her aunt and uncle stood alongside the alcove with its display of weaponry. And to the right, at the sideboard upon which goblets and pitchers of wine sat, was Bayard. Mantle pushed back off his shoulders, hair flecked with moisture, he took the goblet of wine a servant had poured and handed it to the man before him. A welcome visitor, then.