by Tamara Leigh
“I insist.” He glanced at Bayard. “As I am sure the Baron of Godsmere would wish.”
“I thank you for the consideration shown my stepmother,” Bayard said.
“’Tis naught, especially as your other guests at high table will surely be as generous and make room for me.”
Stiffly, Bayard gestured for the knight seated beside Sir Francis to move down. Thus, all those to the left were displaced, though none lost the honor of sitting upon the dais since the last three occupied a bench rather than chairs, allowing another to squeeze among them.
Exhibiting unexpected gallantry, Sir Francis guided Lady Maeve to her chair and lowered himself into the one yielded to him.
Throughout the courses that followed and revelry that grew with each pour of ale and hot elderberry wine, Lady Maeve picked at the foodstuffs and was mostly unreceptive to Bayard’s attempts to draw her into conversation. However, despite her initial shock over Sir Francis’s countenance, it appeared she was not immune to the attention paid her. Angled toward the man with whom she shared a plate, she exchanged words with him that several times caused the mercenary’s eyes to light and mouth to attempt a smile.
After a time, Bayard’s stepmother made no further show of sampling the small portions that would gorge no bellies on their own, but which, combined with portions of other courses, would be the cause of discomfort for many. Though she continued to grace Sir Francis with her attention, she began to worry the purse on her girdle as she had done the night El had sought an audience with her aunt.
When she looked to Constance, and the clatter and clink that had heretofore been muted by the din increased, Bayard leaned toward her and murmured what El imagined were words of comfort.
Lady Maeve’s expression seemed one of gratitude, but also desperation, then she turned back to Sir Francis.
El touched Bayard’s arm and asked low, “Lady Maeve?”
He dipped his spoon in a pudding that wafted cinnamon and cloves and offered it to her. As she sighed over what her full belly would not enjoy as much as her tongue, Bayard said, “Though I would not deny her a chance to once more know close companionship, in this instance, I am grateful she so loved my father that she is unreceptive to that snake’s charms.”
El inclined her head, offered a spoonful of pudding to Bayard.
Though the festivities to come would be of a more simple nature than those enjoyed during temperate Christmases when minstrels and traveling players were hired for entertainment, anticipation grew as all lingered over bellies full of food and drink. Thus, those in the hall were quick to quiet when Bayard stood.
“Now to make merry!” he pronounced.
Chairs and benches scraped as guests hastened from tables that would be cleared by servants who had relieved the first group partway through the meal.
Bayard assisted El out of her chair, but when he turned to his stepmother who waved away Sir Francis’s attempt to help her to her feet and offered his own hand, she said, “I am content to watch the festivities from here.”
“Alas, the lady spurns me,” the mercenary bemoaned. “But ’tis for the best, as my men and I must depart for…” His mouth bent upwards. “I cannot say, only that it is a matter of such importance that were I to neglect it, I might be the cause of harm falling where it ought not.”
“Then we will not further delay you,” Bayard said.
Sir Francis raised an eyebrow, returned his regard to Lady Maeve. “A pleasure it has been. I look forward to when next we meet.”
She inclined her head. “Good day, Sir Francis.”
He bowed and strode the length of the dais, at the far end of which his men had gathered.
“It appears you have gained an admirer,” Bayard said.
Lady Maeve did not respond until the mercenaries had exited the hall. Then, eyes brimming with resentment, she said, “Be assured, I have less a care for that man than you do.”
Bayard slowly nodded. “You are certain you do not wish to join us before the hearth?”
Once more, she took her purse in hand. “What right have I—has anyone—to make merry when my daughter has no occasion to do so?” She put her chin up. “And do not tell me again she is in no danger, nor that De Arell will make her a good husband.”
“Lady Maeve, I—”
“Do not!” That last was said with such vehemence that several of those moving toward the opposite end of the hall looked around. Pressing a hand to her chest, she said, “Go. Take your new wife and sing and dance and worry naught for what your sister suffers for having come to the aid of a brother who does not regard her as fondly as she regards him.”
“My lady—”
She shoved back her chair and rose. “As I am the only one who has a care for Quintin”—the contents of her purse jangled—“I shall no more regret placing my faith in one other than you, Bayard Boursier.”
He stepped near her. “I am sorry you are distraught.”
“You know not how distraught I am! Enough to sell my soul—”
Like hard rain upon metal, the contents of her purse spilled to the dais.
“Ah, nay!” She dropped to her knees and began sweeping the coins together.
Bayard lowered beside her, but she slapped his hands away. “Leave me be!”
Not daring to move, certain her assistance would be even less welcome, El shifted her gaze between the two and caught the glint of something beneath the high seat.
She looked nearer upon it.
A gold band. And it was set with a dark stone upon which a curious symbol was engraved.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“My ring!” El swept it to hand, looked to Bayard.
He frowned. Then came realization, and he turned his regard upon his stepmother. “What did you do, Lady Maeve?” he asked in a voice El had not heard since before his threats and warnings to the woman he had believed to be Thomasin was replaced with tolerance, coaxing, and kisses.
Suddenly still, Lady Maeve stared at the ring. Then, as if all the air went out of her, she folded over her bent knees and clasped her head in her hands. “Nay. Ah, nay.”
“Tell me!” Bayard growled.
El glanced around the hall. Most had gathered before the hearth, and those who were near enough to heed the happenings at the back side of the high table were busy clearing away the feast’s remains.
El set a hand on Bayard’s shoulder. “Methinks Lady Maeve is in need of rest, Husband.”
He drew a deep breath, inclined his head, and slid an arm around his stepmother’s waist. “Come, my lady, I will assist you to your chamber.”
“Aye,” she whispered, and leaning heavily against him, got her feet beneath her. “I am so very tired, Bayard.”
As he guided her across the hall, El following, others hastened forward to offer assistance and were assured his stepmother was merely fatigued. Only Rollo, visibly distressed over Lady Maeve’s state, ignored the order to return to the festivities and accompanied them abovestairs.
Inside the chamber, Hulda rose from a chair before the brazier, dropped her mending onto the seat, and hurried forward. “My lady?”
Bayard lowered his stepmother to the edge of the bed, lifted her legs onto the coverlet, and eased her back against the pillow.
“She is ill?” Hulda asked.
“She is tired. Worry not, Lady Elianor and I will tend her.”
“But—“
“If you are needed, Hulda, I will summon you.”
Something that might have been resentment rippled across the woman’s face.
Holding fast to what remained of his patience, Bayard said, “’Tis Christmas Day. Go enjoy the celebration.”
Feet dragging, the woman crossed the room and glanced back as she stepped past Rollo who hovered near the door.
“I can stay?” the big man asked.
“Nay!” Lady Maeve cried. “Send him away!”
Bayard saw no harm in permitting her half brother to remain, but he could not risk Rollo
’s presence preventing her from speaking. “Return belowstairs, Rollo. Once Lady Maeve and I have talked, I will bring word of how she fares.”
With a low, mournful groan, the man backed into the corridor and pulled the door closed.
As Bayard shifted his regard to Elianor where she stood at the foot of the bed, Lady Maeve said, “Pray, leave me, Bayard.”
He settled to the mattress beside her, noted that she continued to clutch at her chest. “Should I send for the physician, my lady?”
“I but wish to be left alone.”
“Would that I could, but I must know what you know.”
She turned her face opposite. “Not now.”
Struggling to keep his anger from her, he said, “You were the one who took the keys from the steward to release Agatha, the one who replaced them ere they were discovered missing. ’Twas you in the walls with her, there when that woman pushed my wife down the steps.”
She whimpered. “I wish it had not been me there.”
Lord, brace me, he silently prayed. May my words and actions be worthy.
Lady Maeve jerked her chin around, set her gaze upon Elianor. “I vow, I did not know what she intended, and when I saw, I thought it was too late—that your neck was broken.”
“You could not tell she yet breathed when you took the ring from her hand?” Bayard demanded.
“I did not! Only when the ring was discovered missing did I return to the passageway. I found it on the steps. You must believe me!”
In light of her betrayal, he must do no such thing.
“What about the ring is so important you had to retrieve it?”
She shook her head.
“Why did you release Agatha?”
It seemed she would not answer, but finally she said, “For Quintin. As you would not keep her safe, I had to turn to Agatha.” Pleading brightened her eyes. “I vow, I am no friend of that woman’s. Indeed, I had hoped her imprisonment would be the end of her.”
“Why?”
“I hate her—how she makes puppets of us all.”
Her vehement words brought to mind those she had spoken after he had brought Elianor up out of the underground—her declaration that Agatha was of evil bent.
“What has my sister to do with that witch’s release?” Bayard asked.
“Everything. Hence, time and again I have bowed to Agatha’s demands in order to keep my daughter safe.”
Bayard felt as if he had entered a labyrinth. Deciding to leave be the matter of Quintin’s involvement—for the moment—he said. “Time and again?”
“Since she accompanied Constance to Adderstone and showed herself for what she is.”
“What is she, Lady Maeve?”
She scrabbled at her chest, causing the material of her gown to bunch between her fingers. “Though 'tis true Archard was dying, he was not meant to leave me so soon.”
Bayard felt fire lick upward, singeing his throat on its way to his tongue. “Tell me!”
“He did not know what Agatha was, but he sensed the evil of her.” Her lashes fluttered. “He warned you about her. Remember?”
Not easily forgotten, for that warning had visited him often after his father’s passing when he had discovered Constance’s maid had been drugging him.
“She killed him,” he said and looked to Elianor who leaned against a bed post as if for support. Like Constance, she had believed the woman an ally. Unlike her aunt, she had learned that was not so—and nearly paid the price to which his father had been subject.
A sob escaped Lady Maeve. “She hastened his death with one of her powders, though I did not know it until we buried Archard.”
Bayard pushed his ire into his fists, waited.
She swallowed hard. “I felt darkness prick me, slide beneath my skin. Whence it came, I did not know, but when I looked up, she was there among the trees. And when the dirt struck his coffin, she smiled. ’Twas then I recalled that just before I found Archard dead, I met Agatha on the stairs as she was descending and I was ascending.” Lady Maeve splayed her hand on her chest. “That evening, I confronted her with my suspicions. Do you know what she did?”
Bayard held his tongue that was fit only for wrathful words that would frighten her into silence.
“That evil thing laughed and said it was good I knew what she was capable of, for she intended to use me well.”
“You told no one?” Elianor asked softly.
Lady Maeve’s frantic gaze shifted between her audience of two. “I had no choice. You must know I did not, Bayard.”
“I do not know that, and so I await an explanation with all the patience of one who has just learned his father was murdered and his stepmother did naught to see justice served.”
She took hold of his forearm. “She said she would do the same to Quintin if I did not aid her. And so I did—and have continued to do when called upon.”
Bayard shuddered over the effort required to contain the emotion trying to break his surface. “Had you revealed her sin, she would have burned for what she did to my father.”
“You do not understand!”
“Because you do not make sense!”
“What she does, she does in the name of the Foucaults!” The words spilled from her like water from a breached dam.
Bayard drew a sharp breath. “How do you know that?”
Her eyes darted to Elianor. “The ring.”
Elianor opened the hand she held protectively at her waist, revealing her wedding band.
“It was my father’s. I knew it the moment she presented it to me. Ever he wore it upon his little finger until—” She winced, shook her head.
“This symbol,” Elianor said, “it is the letter F inside a D, is it not? For Denis Foucault?”
Before Lady Maeve could answer, Bayard demanded, “Surely you do not say your father lives?”
His stepmother dragged her teeth over her bottom lip. “I can tell no more.”
For a moment, it seemed a wind had come into the chamber, but it was only the force of his breath. “So Agatha seeks revenge. Why? Is she a Foucault?”
“Already I have told too much. Quintin’s safety depends on my silence.”
Bayard thrust to his feet, crossed the room, came back. “All these years, you have maintained contact with her.”
“Pray, believe me, I had no choice.”
“It was she,” Elianor said.
Bayard looked to his wife whose gaze was fixed on Lady Maeve, who was surely fitting together pieces of her years with Agatha.
She nodded. “’Twas not Bayard who told you of my first husband’s abuse. It was Agatha. Did she also reveal my plan to imprison Bayard that he might forfeit Godsmere?”
“Nay, I knew naught of that.”
“Then who gave her the keys to the underground?” Bayard demanded.
Lady Maeve struggled to sitting. “I did, but it was years ago, while she served as Constance’s maid.”
“Used for the passing of missives and meetings between my first wife and her lover,” Bayard said. “Most recently, used to imprison me.”
“I did not know of those plans!”
Not trusting himself to draw nearer, he ignored the hand she stretched to him.
She made a pitiful, pained sound, wrapped her arms around her knees. “I have her word she will keep my Quintin safe.”
“Her word!” Bayard snarled. “You believe one such as that will keep it?”
“Though one side of Quintin is Boursier,” she said with desperation, “there is safety in the Foucault blood I passed to her.”
“What present danger do you fear my sister faces, Lady Maeve?”
Her nostrils flared with a long breath. “Agatha is not alone in this, Bayard.”
He thought on it, and it was as if a ray of light shone across the darkness, pointing him toward something he had thought he understood. He had not. Nor had the De Arells and Verduns.
“The burning of crops and villages,” he said, “the slaughtered cat
tle. It was not always one of our three families striking at the other, was it?”
“I cannot know for certain, but I believe many of the sins that roused our enmities were dealt by those who wish to restore what was torn asunder—to take back all of Kilbourne.”
Though he had not yet thought of Agatha’s foul deeds as a means of piecing the barony back together, that was, of course, the goal. “These others, are they at Castle Mathe?”
“At least one, and for that I fear for Quintin.”
“Tell me who they are, Lady Maeve.”
“I know very little, but what I do know, I cannot say—”
“How am I to aid my sister if you insist on playing games?”
His stepmother leapt off the bed and once more took hold of his arm. “’Tis no game, but life and death, as surely you must know now that ’tis told murder was your father’s end, just as it was nearly Lady Elianor’s end.”
Bayard longed to thrust her aside, but as prayed, he remained in control.
“A bargain!” Her voice pitched high. “That is what I will make with you.”
He glowered. “What say you?”
“Bring Quintin home, and I will tell all I know of Agatha and the others.” She nodded vigorously, and Bayard glimpsed a light in her eyes that possibly shone from the edge of madness.
He breathed deep. “I will ride to Castle Mathe on the morrow and bring her home. Then you will tell all.”
She fell against him. “I know I am weak, but I only did what I had to do.” She dropped her head back. “Promise you will not tell Quintin. I could not bear it if she hated me.”
Bayard looked to Elianor, and the compassion on her face eased his roiling. “Come.” He guided his stepmother toward her bed.
Elianor reached it first and turned back the covers.
Once Lady Maeve was settled, she said, “You have been a good son to me.” Tears spilled from her eyes. “But it is not enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“The blood needed to piece Kilbourne back together does not know your veins.” The coverlet drawn up beneath her chin rustled with the movement of her hand upon her chest. “I do love you, Bayard, and no matter what comes to pass, I pray you never doubt that.”