Baron of Godsmere

by Tamara Leigh

  He knew she cared for him, and though he railed against her being the witch’s pawn, he understood her need to keep Quintin safe from one who had proved she was capable of murder—just as he now understood the reason she had never sufficiently recovered from his father’s death and had further deteriorated following the confrontation between Serle and himself. The aid she had given Agatha made her culpable of the horrors all had been dealt that day.

  “I do not doubt it, my lady,” he said and laid a hand over her restless one beneath the coverlet. “I shall summon the physician.”

  She shook her head. “’Tis fear for Quintin that tightens my chest. Pray, bring her home to me.”

  “I shall. Rest now.”

  As her lids fluttered closed, he turned to Elianor.

  “It explains much,” she whispered.

  He took her arm and led her across the chamber. “What it does not tell is how many years the Foucault avengers have sparked the strife between our families—surely, at least as far back to when Agatha first became Constance’s maid.” He opened the door.

  At the end of the corridor, Rollo turned from the stairs and faltered when he saw them step from the chamber.

  Guessing he had been pacing, Bayard pulled the door closed. “I instructed you to return to the hall.”

  Rollo lumbered forward. “I woulda, but I was great worried over Lady Maeve.”

  “She is resting now.”

  He halted before them. “I should keep watch outside her door?”

  It would be good for someone to be near should she need something. “Only until Hulda returns.”

  Rollo nodded and took up position.

  Once Bayard and Elianor began their descent of the stairs, Elianor said above the sound of revelry that wound upward, “You will tell Magnus what we have learned?”

  “I shall, and when I go to Castle Mathe on the morrow to bring my sister home, De Arell will also know.”

  And stronger than the bonds of marriage forced upon the three families might be the bonds of uniting against a common adversary—one who wore only the face of Agatha of Mawbry. For now.

  Humming. But not familiar as she would have expected. Still, there was naught comforting about it. If there was music to that which rose from a throat that sounded as if afflicted with the pox, it was not of any world Maeve Foucault Boursier wished to inhabit.

  The droning—aye, it was better named that—portended ill. And so she feigned the sleep she had come up out of, which was all the easier to do in the dark of a chamber that had succumbed to night. What hour it was, she did not know, for though she had slept fitfully, her awakenings had been so brief that she could not remember if anyone had been here to witness them.

  But someone was here now. And wished her to know it.

  The humming ceased.

  “Maeve.”

  Though the voice did not surprise her, her body reacted as if it did, betraying her with a jerk and a sharp breath that roused a throaty chuckle.

  “I thought you had awakened.”

  As she raised her lids, the light of the brazier’s remains gave little more than form to the shadow whose substance caused the mattress to dip on her right side. Not that she required further proof of who had come to her.

  A sigh. “I believe you have failed me, Maeve. And if I am wrong… Well, methinks it only a matter of time ere you make me your enemy.”

  She swallowed.

  “All these years, I have protected you and your daughter, and this is how you show your appreciation.” Now the click of a tongue. “I am so disappointed, I would ache had life not taught me such feelings are for the weak.”

  Realizing she was trembling despite the warmth the covers trapped against her living, breathing body, she drew a hand up from her side and pressed it between her breasts. Beneath it, her heart beat hard and fast.

  “Naught to say, Maeve?”

  “Pray, believe me,” she rasped, “I have not—will not fail you. Everything asked of me I have done. Everything!”

  That one bent low, pressed a cool forehead to hers. “Would that I could trust you, but I believe you are a traitor to your blood. And that means…” Another sigh, this one filling her nostrils with rank breath that made her stomach turn and throat close. “…you are in my way, little Maeve.”

  Little. How long since she had been named that? Though she had every reason to be terrified, the word was strangely soothing.

  A dry mouth brushed her brow. “Now go quietly, hmm?”

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “For your daughter—unless you wish her to go loudly.”

  She caught back a sob. “You will continue to protect my Quintin?”

  “I give you my word.”

  “There is still a place for her?”

  “She has only to accept it.”

  “But—”

  “Shh, Maeve. Quietly, remember?”

  She whimpered, dragged her nails across her chest, and as her heart strained toward another beat, told herself, Quietly, little Maeve, as if you never were. So quietly, only Quintin will prove you once lived. And loved.

  Oh, how she had loved! And been loved. Of that she was certain, even if Archard Boursier, who had taken her to wife to atone for his sins, had not known how deeply he felt for her.

  Hence, go quietly, she silently entreated. For the beautiful child Archard gave you. For Quintin who is everything. Everything…

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “I will send your maid with your belongings.”

  El smiled up at her uncle where he sat in the saddle against a crisp blue sky on the morn after Christmas Day. “I thank you, Magnus.”

  He inclined his head, looked to Bayard. “I am glad much of what was unresolved between us is now put to rights, Boursier, and that we are not only allies by way of a common enemy, but through marriage.”

  That first referred, of course, to what had been revealed of Agatha’s dark workings.

  “I am confident,” Magnus continued, “that together we can end the Foucault threat, whatever form it takes.”

  “I will send word of De Arell’s response to the tidings,” Bayard assured him, “and whatever else can be learned from my stepmother once my sister returns to Adderstone.” He stepped back. “Godspeed, Verdun.”

  “And you.”

  It was no idle blessing, for Bayard would ride to Castle Mathe this same day.

  “Bayard,” Constance called from where she sat on her dun-colored palfrey behind her brother, “I would speak with you.”

  He inclined his head and reached to Elianor. When she took his hand, he drew her with him to her aunt’s side.

  “I would have you know I forgive you,” said the woman whose lovely visage was framed by her mantle’s fur-lined hood, “even if you do not seek forgiveness. And I pray one day you will forgive me.”

  Though slow to respond, he said, “I do seek forgiveness, and I thank you for gifting me with yours, just as I gift you with mine.”

  She momentarily closed her eyes. “And Serle?”

  El heard her husband’s teeth grind, but he said, “I will do what I can for both of you.”

  As a radiant smile transformed her aunt’s face, El curled a hand around the purse beneath her mantle that held the ring which had made this peace possible.

  Constance, previously eager to defend Agatha, had been slow to realize how the revelation of her maid’s duplicity might affect her. But when she had come around to it after Bayard revealed to Magnus what was learned from Lady Maeve, Agatha became the evil one, just as Bayard’s stepmother claimed her to be.

  Thus, it was Agatha who had encouraged Constance to consummate her love for Serle and maintain contact with her lover following her marriage to Bayard. Agatha who had stirred Constance’s discontent with her husband and encouraged the lovers to pass missives between each other. Agatha who had convinced Constance it was excusable to cuckold a man who had stolen her from her true love. Agatha who had arranged for Serle and
her to flee Adderstone.

  Though Constance’s enlightenment was self serving in its own way, El knew it must have been difficult, if not impossible, to turn aside the temptations Agatha must have served up like the tastiest sweetmeat. Her aunt may have been a willing victim of the forces that sought to avenge the Foucaults, but her weaknesses had been exploited.

  Smile softening, Constance shifted her gaze to her niece. “Elianor loves you, Bayard, as I should have and wish I could have. Truly, I am happy for you.”

  “I thank you,” he said gruffly. “And now I wish you Godspeed.”

  Shortly, from atop the gatehouse, El and Bayard watched as Magnus and his party appeared beyond the town’s walls and struck out across the thawing land that caused their mounts’ hooves to kick up clotted earth.

  “And so I shall soon leave you as well,” Bayard said as he guided her toward the steps.

  “You are certain you do not wish me to accompany you?”

  “I do wish it, but with your injury, ’tis best you remain within these walls.”

  It would be difficult to handle a horse, El conceded, and the journey would be slowed if he took her up before him. Too, the Christmas celebration would continue for many days, and if the baron could not preside over it, his lady wife ought to. “Then I shall await you here.”

  As they descended to the outer bailey, Bayard said, “Providing De Arell cooperates and the weather as well, I should be gone only one night.”

  “I shall pray he cooperates.” Which was more likely once he knew what Lady Maeve had revealed.

  Upon entering the great hall, a mournful cry reached them.

  At the foot of the stairs, Lady Maeve’s maid was on her knees. Surrounded by a half dozen servants, two of whom had drawn near and placed hands on the woman’s shoulders and back, she hugged her crossed arms to her chest and wailed.

  A pall descended upon Bayard, and though he demanded, “What goes?” as he strode from Elianor’s side, he knew.

  Hulda’s head came up. Tears coursing her bright cheeks, she cried, “Oh, my lord! She is gone. My beloved lady has left us.”

  An ache opening within him over his sister’s loss that would be felt all the deeper for her not having been here—and his own loss, Lady Maeve being the only mother he had known—he took the stairs two at a time and called over his shoulder, “Send for the physician.” Not that he doubted Hulda, for she was well enough aged to be acquainted with the face of death, but the man should be able to determine the cause.

  When he entered his stepmother’s chamber, Bayard saw she lay upon her bed just as he had left her on the day past. Or nearly so. The coverlet he had drawn up to her shoulders was at her waist, revealing her bunched hand upon her chest.

  Her heart, then?

  He halted alongside the bed, and as he stared down into a face that, despite its gray cast, looked peaceful, he ached all the more. Ignoring her protests, he had sent the physician to her, and though the man had reported her heart troubled her as it often did when she was overwrought, he had assured his lord that his draught had calmed her sufficiently to allow her to sleep. There had been no warning she would not rise again, that her fears for Quintin would not be quieted, that she would take to the grave those secrets that could mean the end of Agatha and the others—if there truly were others—who conspired to reassemble the pieces of Kilbourne.

  Hearing footsteps, Bayard looked over his shoulder.

  “I did return to my lady early yestereve, my lord,” Hulda said as she entered alongside Elianor. “I vow I did, and she told that she felt much improved. Had I known she was so unwell, I would not have gone back to the festivities as she said I should.”

  Bayard’s thoughts went to Rollo whom he had instructed to remain outside Lady Maeve’s chamber until Hulda’s return. When the maid had reappeared, he would have departed, unaware Hulda would not stay long. Thus, if Lady Maeve could have called for help, the man-at-arms would not have been present to defend her.

  A sob escaped Hulda where she had halted in the center of the room, her eyes averted from the woman upon the bed. “I should have been here for her. My wee Maeve ought not to have died alone.”

  “You could not have known.” Bayard glanced at Elianor who had put an arm around the maid, then looked back at his stepmother. Wondering if it was too convenient for her to have passed away before revealing what she had determined to hold close until her daughter was returned, now armed with the knowledge his father had not died of what had appeared to be natural causes, he slowly picked his gaze over the scene.

  All seemed in order—no signs of struggle or distress, other than Lady Maeve’s hand clutching her chest.

  “You said you came to her early eve, Hulda.”

  “Aye.”

  “And later?”

  “Not again until this morn that I might make her ready for the day.”

  “Then you did not sleep on your pallet?” He nodded at the stuffed mattress against the wall.

  “After the games and singin’, and more mead than I ought to have had, I fell asleep in the hall.”

  The same as many celebrants had done, as evidenced by the great scattering of bodies that had made it difficult to negotiate the hall this morn in order to see Verdun and his party away from Adderstone.

  “Do not blame yourself,” Bayard said. “Were you here, ’tis not likely you could have changed the outcome.”

  “But she died alone!”

  Bayard looked one last time upon his stepmother and turned away. “There is naught to be done here. Elianor, take Hulda below while I summon Father Crispin.”

  “Oh, Lady Quintin!” Hulda bemoaned as she was guided from the chamber. “The poor lamb!”

  All the more reason to bring his sister home. For certain, De Arell could make no argument against releasing her now.

  An hour later, the ill priest having arisen from his bed to attend to the death at Adderstone, Bayard was so set on retrieving Quintin that it was Elianor who reminded him he no longer must shoulder burdens alone. Having followed him to the stables where a dozen of his men and horses were being readied for the ride to Castle Mathe, she pulled him aside and stepped near. “I will be waiting for you.”

  Her softly spoken words and unwavering gaze lightened him enough to be with her in that moment—to breathe her, to feel her touch all the way through, to strengthen his hold on the hope she had brought into his life.

  “You are my light, Elianor,” he said. “Despite this day’s sorrow, were it a dream, I might be selfish enough to refuse to awaken from it.”

  “As I might myself.” She rose to her toes and kissed him.

  When he rode from Adderstone a quarter hour later, over and again he heard her parting words, “Godspeed, my love.”

  Death changed all. There were no grumblings and only a mild air of discontent when the celebrants were told the festivities were at an end now that Castle Adderstone was in mourning for Lady Maeve Boursier.

  Still, knowing the days of Christmas might be the only bright spot during the bleak, soul-shaking winter, El ordered the cook to send prepared foodstuffs and drink to the town folk and those who dwelt in the outlying villages.

  Having had little appetite for the midday meal, her thoughts time and again flying to Bayard who had departed two hours past, El sat back from the trencher she had invited the mournful Rollo to share with her. “You may finish it, if you like,” she told the man-at-arms she had earlier coaxed out from behind her chair where he had watched over her as Bayard had ordered him to do.

  “I thank ye, milady,” he said, “but I am not much hungry.”

  Understandable. Lady Maeve may not have embraced him as her misbegotten brother, but he was affected by the severance of that bond.

  “More wine, milady?” asked the serving woman who ascended the dais.

  El nodded. “I thank you, Anne.”

  The woman poured, eyed Rollo’s cup and, at El’s nod, refilled it as well.

  “Father Crispin
?” Anne asked.

  The priest, who had arranged for Lady Maeve to be laid out in the chapel after the physician concluded her heart had failed her, set a hand over the top of his goblet. “I have had enough, thank you.”

  It did not seem so to El, for he had sipped at it as much as she had picked at her food, but his red-rimmed eyes and persistent sniffling evidenced he was still unwell.

  “Indeed,” he said and looked to El, “if you will excuse me, my lady, I will return to my chamber and try to sleep away this evil in my head.”

  “Of course.”

  As he trudged along the back of the dais, El lifted her goblet and drank. When the priest mounted the stairs and went from sight, she moved her gaze over Adderstone’s retainers who solemnly occupied the lower tables. Not only had yesterday’s cheer been drained from them by the passing of Lady Maeve, but they were a fatigued lot, many slumped on upturned hands. One knight had even laid his head on the table.

  A great yawn brought her chin around and she was granted an eyeful of the interior of Rollo’s mouth.

  Even as she winced, his yawn prompted one of her own. She lowered the goblet and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. When she opened her eyes again, all seemed blurred, and she blinked to sharpen her vision. However, it remained unfocused and began to waver and darken around the edges.

  She shook her head, felt her body begin to sink into itself.

  “What?” she said, or thought she did, for her ears caught no sound other than that of another yawn.

  Surely this is not… Nay, she could not have. Could she?

  Her head was lowering, narrowing vision registering that more were making beds of the trestle tables.

  She could. She had.

  And in the midst of a celebration that entailed a multitude of comings and goings between the town and castle, it had been easier to do than when El had been her accomplice and stolen into the kitchen to drug The Boursier.

  “Bayard,” she said, and again heard nothing. Nor when she cried out his name.