Baron of Godsmere

by Tamara Leigh

  “All is well,” she said.

  Rollo nodded and, having also noted his lord’s presence, did not follow her across the hall.

  As she approached Bayard, she considered the man with whom he conversed. Though the visitor stood inches shorter and the hair bound at his nape was gray, he was broadly built, though that might be illusion, draped as he was in a thick mantle.

  “My lord husband,” El called. “I see we have visitors at Adderstone.”

  Bayard gave her a smile far from genuine. “Aye, come in from out of the cold,” he said and reached to her.

  As she took the last steps to his side, the other man turned and she nearly startled at the sight of his ruined visage. But though tempted to avert her gaze and look anywhere but upon the burn scars that violently puckered his neck up to his cheekbones, she held steady and was grateful for the comfort of Bayard’s hand enclosing hers.

  “Sir Francis Cartier”—Bayard returned his attention to the visitor—“I present my wife, Lady Elianor Boursier.”

  It was impossible to tell if the man’s smile was more genuine than Bayard’s, for his mouth did not move in any natural way, his lips further evidencing the tragedy that had befallen him. “So The Boursier chose a Verdun over a De Arell,” he said.

  The words were so unexpected—and contrary to the actual events—El once more struggled to contain her startle.

  “Lady Elianor,” Bayard continued, “Sir Francis is a mercenary who serves—”

  “Knight errant,” the man sharply corrected, then chuckled as if to make light of his reaction. “The king of England’s most loyal sword.”

  “I met Sir Francis the day King Edward decreed that our families wed one into the other,” Bayard said tautly. “Sir Francis thought the king too lenient in his dealings with us.”

  “He is a more tolerant man than I,” the knight said.

  El stretched a smile across her mouth. “You are welcome at Castle Adderstone, Sir Francis. With night upon us, and this the eve of our Lord’s birth, I hope you and your men will accept our hospitality and pass the night in our hall.”

  The knight raised his eyebrows. “You are all generosity to share your beautiful abode, my lady.”

  There was nothing generous about it. Though she had no cause to dislike him as much as she sensed Bayard did, she cared not for the air of arrogance that rose from him like an odor. Of more concern was the subtle breath of guile and the way his dark, gold-rimmed eyes moved down her.

  Pausing upon her splinted arm, he said, “I see your means of dealing with a reluctant wife have not changed, Boursier.”

  Danger. El sensed it as surely as if swords had been drawn. And for a moment, Bayard’s grip on her hand was as firm as one would expect of a grip upon iron. Understanding his reaction over the persistence of sins he had not visited on another, but eager to ease the tension, she said, “I thank you for your concern, Sir Francis, but you are mistaken. My arm was broken in a fall of my own doing.” No need to bring Agatha into the tale.

  “I see,” he said, “but what I do not see is a wedding ring.”

  El glanced at the hand she held at her waist. “Sadly, ’twas lost in my fall, but if you doubt the verity of my marriage to the baron, Father Crispin will attest to the vows spoken between us.” Again, no need to tell more than need be told—that she had originally spoken vows in Thomasin’s name.

  Sir Francis put the goblet to his lips and considered her over the rim as he drank. Lowering the goblet, he transferred his gaze to Bayard. “A fortunate man you are that so beautiful—and loyal—a woman was among the choices given you.”

  El glanced at her husband whose attention was entirely on the other man, as if he thought it a poor idea to let him out of his sight.

  “Sir Francis was sent by the king to ensure the first of his decrees was honored,” Bayard said, “and when he departs on the morrow, he may deliver tidings that this barony is to remain in the hands of the Boursiers.”

  The man who was offended at being named a mercenary sighed. “I shall, and I cannot tell you how pleased I am, Boursier, that you so value this bit of dirt that my men and I are saved the trouble of ousting you.”

  Bayard’s grip once more turned firm.

  “Soon we shall sit down for supper,” El said. “Until then, you and your men are welcome to make yourselves comfortable, Sir Francis.”

  “That we shall, my lady. I thank you.”

  “Excuse us,” Bayard said, drawing El away, “there are matters to which I must attend ere the day is done.”

  “You cannot spare your wife’s company?”

  Bayard halted.

  Sir Francis shrugged. “I am certain the king would approve of my becoming further acquainted with the wife of one of his barons—all the better to assure him he was right to give you a chance to retain…” He frowned. “What is this little barony of yours called? Ah, Godsmere.”

  Danger once more pulsing from Bayard, El hastened to say, “Of course I would be happy to know you better, Sir Francis.”

  “Then I shall leave you two to it,” Bayard said and released El’s hand and turned away.

  Hoping his ire toward Sir Francis did not bleed into her, El met the knight errant’s gaze.

  He returned it—once more, over a long drink.

  As he lowered the goblet, Rollo appeared at her side, doubtless sent by Bayard. Brow weighted, lids narrowed upon Sir Francis, he said, “Milady.”

  Hoping he was well enough versed in propriety to say nothing of the other man’s disfigurement, El said, “Sir Francis Cartier, this is Rollo. Rollo, Sir Francis Cartier is the king’s man and our guest.”

  If any lacked propriety, it was Sir Francis. As he raked his gaze over Rollo, the sneer tugging up the right side of his mouth enlarged. “Rollo,” he muttered with a dismissive lift of the eyebrows.

  Aye, mercenary, El silently agreed with Bayard. Knight errant was too honorable a title for such a man.

  “I was briefly introduced to your uncle, Lady Elianor,” he said, jutting his chin in the direction of Magnus whose head was bent toward Constance as if to catch words spoken low. “Is that Boursier’s half sister with whom he converses?”

  El was momentarily surprised that he knew of Quintin, but it made sense he would be somewhat versed in the three families since the king had given him the task of verifying the first of the marriages was made.

  “Nay, that is Baron Verdun’s sister, Lady Constance—my aunt.”

  There was no mistaking the confusion upon the man’s brow. Though that part of his face had escaped the damage done the lower half, it capably expressed emotion his mouth could not.

  “Boursier’s first wife?” he said. “As the king told it, she was committed to a convent following the annulment of their marriage.”

  El stared. He was not somewhat versed in the three families as she had assumed. He was well versed.

  She cleared her throat. “She was and remains. My uncle was bringing her home to Castle Kelling for Christmas when the snow caused him and his entourage to seek shelter here.” Once more, the less told, the better.

  Of a sudden, the mercenary laughed. “So civilized!”

  El frowned.

  “Forgive me, Lady Elianor, I but marvel over the miracle of a first and second wife peaceably sharing the home of the man to whom they were—and are—wed. And nearly as stupefying is that they are related to each other. For that alone, I would have expected Boursier to have chosen the misbegotten De Arell woman to wed.”

  So Bayard had. Struggling to keep dislike from her face and voice, El said, “As you say—civilized.”

  “And yet…” Sir Francis lifted his face toward the ceiling, breathed deep. “…the stench of discord is upon the air.”

  El’s jaw began to ache, and she thought that if he could, indeed, sense discord, it had to be her own. Granted, he was no Murdoch, but it was no pleasant thing to be in his presence.

  “Forgive me, Sir Francis,” she said briskly, “but
I must return to the kitchen to ensure this evening’s meal is equal to our guests whom the king holds in high regard.”

  Before he could respond, she dipped her chin and pivoted. And gnashed her teeth when her ears caught his chuckle.

  “That ‘un,” Rollo said, quickly coming alongside, “I do like even less than that other ‘un.” He jerked his head to indicate Constance.

  “I fear Sir Francis is one of those who is content only if he can make the lives of others as miserable as his own,” El muttered.

  “Best stay clear of him, milady.”

  “Certes, I intend to.”

  When the low-burning fire was the only light that remained in the chamber, Bayard crossed to the bed, disrobed, and lay down beside his wife.

  As he drew the covers over him, she said, “’Twas not as bad as feared.”

  She referred to Sir Francis and his men. Though the mercenary had been seated beside Bayard throughout the meal—a place of honor, though in Cartier’s case, a means of keeping him in sight—the king’s man had been as near to pleasant as he was likely able to manage.

  Of course, the turn in his demeanor was surely a result of the delight he had taken in Bayard’s French wines. Fortunately, he was not one whose behavior turned belligerent and dangerous the more he imbibed. Nor had his men, a surprisingly reserved bunch, caused trouble among the celebrants. Thus, the meal was happily concluded, the Yule log lit, hymns that praised the miracle of Christ sung, and wassail pots filled with hot spiced cider and slices of roasted apples passed around.

  Better yet, Sir Francis and his men had declined the invitation to attend the midnight service known as “Angel’s Mass,” preferring to bed down in the hall so they would be rested for their departure following the Christmas Day feast. Hopefully, the weather would not take a turn for the worse and delay their departure.

  Bayard pulled himself back to the present that was not yet an hour into Christmas Day. If not that Father Crispin was taking ill such that he had not been present at meal and his midnight mass had been half as long as usual, they would be well into the second hour of the day celebrated for bringing the light of salvation into the dark of humanity.

  “I wish I could say I am sorry you found Sir Francis to be an unpleasant sort,” he said, “but I am pleased your instincts are sharp enough to allow you to see past his charms.”

  Elianor laughed. “Charms? If he has any, he keeps them well hidden. Thus, you give my instincts more credit than they deserve. Though I know my prayers should not be so self serving, this eve I spent several upon requests that the weather continue to improve so he might sooner depart.”

  Bayard chuckled. “As did I.” He closed his eyelid and began to drift.

  “Bayard, are you still pleased I am your wife?”

  Her voice was so small and uncertain that he pulled back from the edge of sleep. Turning his face toward hers, he caught the sparkle of her eyes. “You know I am.”

  “Then why do you not make love to me? I thought…” He heard her swallow. “…you did not find me displeasing the night we first loved.”

  There it was—what he had been waiting to hear. “I found you most pleasing, Elianor. ’Tis just that I am not willing to risk you.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “As told, no matter the desires of the flesh, I would go slow rather than risk making another bad marriage.”

  “But I no longer wish you to go slow.”

  She was so vehement he almost laughed. Turning onto his side toward her, he levered onto an elbow and laid a hand to her cheek. “That is what you think, but your body is not in accord, and as I am determined our marriage will be different from what both of us have known, I am willing to wait so that one day you might soar with me.”

  “Soar,” she whispered.

  “Aye, but first you must better trust my touch.”

  After a long moment, she said, “I do trust it. Indeed, I find it and those other things most pleasant. I just cannot quite forget…”

  He brushed his mouth across hers. “This I know, Elianor. And in time, you will be free of the past and fully mine.”

  “Not if you continue at this pace,” she countered. “You go much too slow, Husband.”

  “Do I?”

  “Most certainly.” Her hand found his and drew it toward her. “And now I require another lesson. Slow? Very well. Just not too slow.”

  She laid his hand to her belly—her bare belly, he realized, her skin warm and soft beneath his calloused palm.

  When had she shed her chemise? While he had completed his ablutions at the basin? Extinguished the candles?

  “You, dear wife,” he said, “are unclothed.”

  “Calculated, I vow. But is it enough to tempt my much too considerate husband?”

  “Certes, it will suffice.” He lowered his head and kissed her sweet mouth.

  Sometime later, when she had tempted him well beyond a single, slow lesson and it was his name she spilled into his ear, he knew her again. And she began to know him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Lamb stew, poached fowl, peppered venison, wine-marinated pork, white bread, all manner of pies, plum pudding, and more. Such was the Christmas Day menu, and an ambitious one since the celebration included many of the town folk and the weather had made it difficult to procure the abundance required to feed all.

  Not surprisingly, the warmth within the great hall was as much due to the Yule log’s hearty flames as the vast number of adults that crowded the tables and their little ones who sat upon blankets on the rush-covered floor.

  As Father Crispin was no better for a night’s sleep, it was Bayard who praised God for His son’s sacrifice that gifted humanity with salvation and asked for a blessing upon the bounty. When he signaled the servants to begin pouring drink, excited chatter arose.

  Settling back in the high seat, ignoring Sir Francis on the one side of him—as most of those present aspired to do, though for the more obvious reason of the mercenary’s frightening visage—Bayard looked to his wife on his other side.

  El smiled, letting her feelings show amid relief that all was in order. Though in the rush to make ready for the day, few words had been spoken between them since the hour past midnight when Bayard had made her feel things yet more promising, there seemed no need for words now. She guessed he felt the same, for he reached to her, and when she set her hand in his, turned his gaze forward.

  She would have done the same if not for Sir Francis. His face was mostly in profile, but his sidelong gaze that Bayard’s unseeing left eye did not catch, was fixed on the clasped hands of the lord and lady of Godsmere. A moment later, it shifted to her eyes.

  His burnt smile briefly showed teeth, then he leaned near Bayard and said, “For one bitterly opposed to marriage, Boursier, it seems you owe your king much gratitude.”

  Bayard looked to him.

  “I wonder, though, if your sister will be as pleased with that whom your choice of Lady Elianor has left to her.”

  “Though I shall ensure De Arell makes her a good husband,” Bayard said, “whether or not she is pleased is of no consequence, is it? What King Edward wants, he shall have.”

  Sir Francis lifted his goblet. “Ah, the price of dirt.”

  As Bayard’s hand tensed upon El’s, the mercenary took a drink without spill or dribble despite the awkwardness of what was so simple a thing for others who had not come through whatever tragedy had befallen him.

  “Once more, I disturb you mightily, Boursier.” He shrugged. “That seems my lot—collecting adversaries as bountifully as a beautiful woman collects suitors.” He looked to the lower table nearest the dais, and El was certain it was Constance he regarded. “But worry not, the sun shines, the snow melts, and the air is still. Thus, this day you shall be rid of me and my men.”

  As bowls of fragrant stew were served, Lady Maeve stepped off the stairs, emerging from her chamber for the first time in five days. That she had chosen to reappear on Christmas wa
s a gift El hoped would lessen Bayard’s worry and guilt.

  The crowded hall blocking a direct approach to the high table, Lady Maeve moved along the wall and ascended the dais on the side nearest El.

  Bayard stood as she neared, greeted her, and spoke something low that made her smile faintly, then frown.

  He turned her toward Sir Francis who had risen from the chair she usually occupied, but before formal introductions could be made, the mercenary stepped forward, caught up her hand, and sharply bowed his head. “Sir Francis Cartier, in service to King Edward. And now yours, dear lady.”

  When he raised his face, she startled and made a sound between a gasp and a gulp.

  “Lady Maeve, is it not?” he said, then, “Pray, forgive me. I should have been more gentle in presenting myself.” He released her hand and gestured at his face. “Such a sight is disturbing. But, alas, there is no means of hiding the devilish visage that was cruelly dealt me years ago.” Of a sudden, he laughed. “That is, short of walling myself up like a pitiable anchorite, and of such religious bent I am not.”

  Lady Maeve blinked, as did El who would not have expected such an outpouring from the man. Might he be entranced? Bayard’s stepmother was attractive, a noblewoman, and a widow.

  “My apologies,” she said, her words barely perceptible above the din. “’Twas impolite to react so, especially since I was not unprepared.” She glanced at Bayard, and El guessed that, in addition to his greeting, he had forewarned her of the introduction to come. “My only excuse is that I have not been well these past days.”

  Sir Francis’s brow rippled. “I am sorry to hear that, but pleased you feel well enough to attend the feast.” He stepped aside and gestured at the chair he had vacated.

  She pressed a hand to her chest, and the smile that moved her mouth quaked as if wrought of nervousness. “It is not necessary—”