Baron of Godsmere

by Tamara Leigh

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Lady Thomasin was in a temper. But then, Bayard had nearly run her to ground. More than that, her anger seemed roused by the discovery she had a protector—one of De Arell’s knights who had appeared to defend her.

  Bayard was not in the habit of making prey of women who had done him no ill. However, when he had gone to relieve himself while the horses took water from a iced-over stream he and his men had cracked open, he had heard something not of the wood. At first, he had thought it imagining—a play of the mind resulting from the nearly sleepless night spent holding Elianor following Lady Maeve’s revelation—but it had come again.

  Humming, and not of just any song. Agatha’s song.

  Struggling to contain the fire within, lest it be loosed only to be doused with blood, he had tracked the source and caught sight of a hooded figure moving briskly among the trees, a basket swinging from her arm.

  He would have caught her unawares if not for De Arell’s knight whose shouted challenge had caused Bayard’s prey to spin around, hood to fall, bright eyes to grow large, firm jaw to drop—no Agatha of Mawbry, this. No quick end to the woman who had murdered Bayard’s father, had nearly murdered his wife, and would murder again were she not stopped.

  There had been no time to demand answers from De Arell’s daughter, for though Bayard had drawn his sword during his pursuit, her protector was fast upon him.

  Fortunately, the knight who had descended the steps to do De Arell’s bidding when Bayard and Elianor had been admitted to Castle Mathe, had recognized Bayard and a meeting of swords was averted.

  Now the man, for all of what Bayard guessed were his efforts to keep his lord’s daughter safe during her much-rumored wanderings, was the recipient of the lady’s wrath.

  “That ye dare!” she lapsed into the rustic speech that evidenced she was only recently elevated to nobility. “That ye trespass upon me privacy!” She took a step toward the knight.

  “My lady, I was only—”

  “Only what, Sir Otto?” She threw the basket at him. Empty of whatever it had held, it fell short of the man by several feet.

  “I was honoring my lord’s orders—that I follow and watch from afar to ensure your safety.”

  “Enough!” Bayard bellowed.

  Silence fell, the only sound that of dry, withered leaves that rattled where they continued to cling to branches that had wearied of spring’s finery months ago.

  Then the young woman snapped around. “And ye?” she demanded. “Pray, for what does The Boursier lurk in me father’s woods?”

  “I ride on Castle Mathe to bring my sister home,” Bayard allowed, though his patience was almost frayed through. “We but paused to water our horses.”

  She scoffed. “I warrant me father knows naught of yer intent.”

  “There was no time to send word. Lady Quintin’s mother has died.”

  Her eyes widened further, and she sucked a breath. “Oh, I did not know!”

  “Nor would I expect it of you. As for your father, if he is not honorable enough to release my sister so she might bury her mother and properly mourn her, I will take her by force—which your presence here makes all the easier to do.” Was it divine intervention that this time he had the real Thomasin with whom to bargain?

  She frowned, glanced at her protector whose sword had come up again.

  Bayard considered the man who looked as if he might foolishly risk what he ought not. “I would not fault you for doing your duty, Sir Otto, but let there be no doubt the outcome will be the same. I will use Lady Thomasin regardless of whether or not I must relieve you of that blade.”

  “There need be no bloodshed,” the young woman said and quickly stepped toward Bayard, bringing herself within reach. As her protector growled with frustration, she lifted a staying hand toward Bayard. “I am sorry for yer family’s loss, and if you must needs use me, I grant ye—” She cleared her throat. “I grant you permission. Not that it will be needed, for I am certain that in this matter, me—” Her jaw shifted, and this time when she corrected her speech, it was with anger seemingly directed at herself. “In this matter, my father will bend.”

  “Let us hope you are right,” Bayard said, then to Sir Otto, “Sheathe your sword, Sir Knight. I vow no harm will befall your lady. At worst, she will be traded for my sister.”

  Grudgingly, the knight slid the blade into its scabbard. Bayard did the same.

  “There, not a drop of blood,” Lady Thomasin said. “Now, let us hasten to my father who, I vow, will prove he is not the knave some believe him to be.”

  “We shall soon know for sure,” Bayard said. “First, though, I must ask you—”

  “Of course, Lady Quintin may not agree with me.”

  Though it had been Bayard’s intent to question her about that which had caused him to pursue her through the wood, he demanded, “What say you? Does or does not my sister fare well?”

  She gave a funny, slanted smile. “She does well, though still my father keeps knives from her—indeed, takes it upon himself to cut her meat when she deigns to join us at meal. I probably do not have to tell you his thoughtfulness does naught for her disposition.”

  She did not. Relieved he had not misplaced his trust in Griffin de Arell, he said, “The song you were—”

  “Strange, that,” she mused. “Lady Quintin may hate my father, but ’tis an uncommon sort of hate. And so I often imagine hatin’ Magnus Verdun the same, and all I can think is it would be better to simply kiss the man. Thus, I wonder if your sister ought to as well.”

  Bayard stared at this young woman whom he would have wed if not for Elianor’s deception. And more than ever, he was grateful for the healing wounds upon his wrists that had begun the story of Elianor of Emberly and Bayard Boursier. The woman he had grudgingly wed twice was enough of a handful for him. Magnus Verdun, a man whom other men could not deny was overly blessed of face and form, would surely pale beside Thomasin de Arell who, despite being plain of face, was almost offensively vivacious in expressing herself.

  “Ah, but…” She winced. “The time for that is past, eh? What I mean is…” She shrugged. “’Tis now a time of mourning, not kissing.”

  Bayard looked to Sir Otto. His stance had relaxed somewhat and there was a smile in a corner of his mouth. Though he must be accustomed to Lady Thomasin’s singularity, it obviously remained a source of amusement.

  “Lady Thomasin,” Bayard said, “what caused me to give chase was the tune you hummed.”

  Frowns did not become the lady, for they were exaggerated, as if learned from a foul-tempered father. “Aye?”

  “I know the tune and some of the words, but it is most familiar to me by way of the person from whom I first heard it.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “’Tis a pastorela that tells of a nobleman trying to talk his way up a peasant woman’s skirts with all manner of flattery and deception. Naturally, I find it interestin’ since…” She shrugged. “As you know, I am the result of something similar.” Then a laugh, slightly bitter at the edges. “Forsooth, Magnus Verdun cannot be pleased I am the only one left to him.”

  “From whom did you learn the song, Lady Thomasin?”

  She blinked “My friend.”

  Bayard’s muscles bunched. “Who?”

  “Why?”

  “Tell me!”

  A sharp tsk, but she said, “Her name is Aude.”

  He frowned. “Not Agatha?”

  “As I said, Aude.”

  Bayard’s mind wrenched him back to when he had brought a bleeding, broken Elianor up out of the passageway. She had muttered something about Agatha saying it was not Agatha, then posed a question with one word—rather, name. Aude. As Elianor’s consciousness had begun to slide away, her need for reassurance that she would come back to him had kept him from pursuing her meaning. And he had not thought again on those strange words as, it seemed, neither had she.

  “You do not believe me, Baron Boursier?” Lady Thomasin said.
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  Bayard returned her to focus, but before he could further his inquiry, she looked to Sir Otto and said, “Is that not right?”

  Amusement no longer evident about the man’s mouth, he said, “How would I know—?”

  Lady Thomasin made a sound of disgust. “You think me so fool to believe this is the first time ye’ve followed me, Sir Otto?”

  With a sheepish dip of the head, he said, “I do not, my lady,” then looked to Bayard. “’Tis true, Lady Thomasin has an acquaintance named Aude—not Agatha—though I cannot say I have heard her sing.”

  “Well, it is of some comfort my privacy was not entirely trampled,” the lady said, “that you were not listening at doors and through cracks.”

  Bayard stepped nearer her, laid a hand on her shoulder. “Tell me of this Aude. What does she—?”

  “Baron Boursier,” Sir Otto said, “surely we waste time speaking of a simple woman when we ought to start for Castle Mathe so your sister might sooner learn of her loss and see her mother buried.”

  “He is right.” Lady Thomasin hugged her mantle closer. “It grows colder, and it will not be long ere day darkens.”

  True. The sun’s position told five hours had passed since his departure from Adderstone. Less than two hours of daylight remained.

  Bayard jutted his chin at the knight. “Sir Otto, lead the way to the stream.”

  With obvious grudging, the knight turned aside.

  As Lady Thomasin hastened forward to retrieve her basket, Bayard followed and returned to the question burning a hole in him. “Aude,” he said, shortening his stride so they might stay abreast.

  “A simple woman, as Sir Otto said.” She nodded at the knight who was far enough ahead that he would have to strain to be privy to their exchange, then flicked Bayard a frown. “I hope you do not think to make Aude’s life any more difficult than already it is.”

  Only if she is not the one I believe her to be, he silently qualified. “I do not. I am merely curious.”

  “Hmm,” she murmured. “Aude is a wanderer, though she mostly keeps to the three baronies.”

  What had once been the barony of Kilbourne.

  “And since she moves place to place, I mostly happen upon her, and when I do, she is kind enough to aid me with…”

  “With?”

  “Distributing to the poorest among us those things not needed at Castle Mathe.”

  “Pilfered goods.”

  She snorted, so loudly he would have thought it a man who made the sound had both his eyes been blinded. “Since the lord of Castle Mathe is my father, they can hardly be called that. Too, as he has set Sir Otto upon me, ’tis obvious he knows what I do. So let us call them alms.” She smiled. “Of which our heavenly father approves.”

  “When did you last see this Aude?”

  Her mouth lost its curve, brow furrowed. “Was it a sennight past?”

  Bayard held his breath. A sennight would make it impossible for Aude to be Agatha, for Lady Maeve had only just released her. Even if the woman had a worthy horse, with the poor weather—and her broken hand—she could not have made it to Castle Mathe on the Barony of Blackwood.

  “Nay,” Lady Thomasin shook her head. “Five days past.”

  Agatha, then.

  De Arell’s knight halted, came around. “Is my pace too fast for you, my lady?”

  Another snort. “I wager all yer sneaking around after me has tired you out more than it has done me. Pray, lead on!”

  His lips thinned, but he resumed his course.

  The distance between them having narrowed, Bayard caught the man’s disgruntled muttering. Ignoring it, he said, “Lady Thomasin, where did you see Aude?”

  “At Castle Mathe, and ’twas strange to see her there, for she keeps to the villages—when she is not keeping to herself.”

  When Lady Maeve had enlisted the woman to protect Quintin, had it prompted the termagant to venture where she did not openly go? If so, what had she thought to accomplish by entering the castle walls? If it was true she had Foucault supporters there, what had passed between them?

  “Did she tell you for what she came?” he asked.

  “I did not talk to her. I was passin’ into the outer bailey when I caught an eye of her coming in with other villagers. I called out, but lost sight of her, and though I looked for her, I did not find her.”

  Because she had not wished to be found.

  “So she might yet be within Castle Mathe’s walls.”

  Lady Thomasin made a face. “Certes, in all the days past, I would have seen her again.”

  If she had wished to be seen.

  “Too, this day when I distributed alms in the village of Cross, I did ask after her. The blacksmith’s son said she passed through several days ago and had one of her horse’s shoes replaced.”

  Then she had obtained another horse, and not from Adderstone following her escape, for Bayard had confirmed all horses were present in the stables, including the ones Agatha and Elianor had used in the course of his imprisonment.

  “Did the blacksmith’s son say which direction she went?”

  Lady Thomasin’s lips quirked with what seemed satisfaction. “I did ask, and he told that Aude looked to be heading toward Godsmere.”

  And here he was upon the barony of Blackwood. He took Lady Thomasin’s arm to hasten her along.

  She gasped, but stretched her legs longer to accommodate him. “Why are we in more of a hurry? Surely ye—you—do not fear Aude? She is a good, harmless soul, I vow.”

  A vow she would be unable to keep, for she would soon learn, as had Constance, that there was nothing harmless or good about Agatha of Mawbry.

  “She only wishes to be left in peace,” Lady Thomasin continued as Bayard’s men came into sight. “Indeed, she has likely set in for the winter in that hovel of hers.”

  “Hovel?” he snatched up the word.

  “Aye, and you have no right to bother her there, it being this side of the border between my father’s demesne and yer’s.”

  An extensive border. Bayard halted and pulled the lady around to face him. “I do not fear this Aude, but I do fear for her, Lady Thomasin. Thus, I need your help.”

  She blinked. “Is she in danger?”

  Mortal danger. “She is. Tell me, where is this hovel?”

  Bayard glanced at the knight who had come around and gripped his sword hilt—a warning that regardless of whether or not he would prevail, he would defend his charge.

  “I ought not to know its whereabouts,” Lady Thomasin said, “since Aude caught me the first time I tried to follow her and took me to task, but I did discover it.” She winked. “I am most curious, at times annoyingly persistent.”

  The knight stepped nearer.

  “Stand down,” Bayard said. “The lady and I but converse.”

  “Fear not, Sir Otto,” the lady said, then continued, “Early last spring, I accompanied my father on a hunt, and the chase brought us near the border between the demesnes. After the deer was brought to ground, we paused to eat and rest before starting back, and while the men were slumbering, I slipped away.”

  She looked around. “Did you follow me then, Sir Otto?”

  “Not on that occasion, my lady. I was not among the hunting party.”

  “Forgive me, I did not recall.” She returned her regard to Bayard. “That is when I caught sight of Aude, and this time I more cautiously followed.”

  “Where?” he asked, patience close to snapping.

  “A small lake formed by the stream that flows from a ravine.” She frowned. “And so heavily treed you are nearly upon it ere you realize ’tis there.”

  Bayard was fairly certain he knew the one, though it was not exclusive to Griffin de Arell. Much of that murky lake, in the absence of sufficient rainfall, was better called a bog. It lay near the center of what had been the great barony of Kilbourne before it was apportioned into Godsmere, Blackwood, and Emberly, and it was at that place the three lesser baronies converged. Thus, al
l families could lay claim to a portion of the lake. And how obscenely fitting that the woman who worked revenge in the name of the Foucaults had made a home there.

  “I know it,” Bayard said, and looked past her to Sir Otto who raised his eyebrows, then to his men who watched and waited.

  Bayard knew what must be done. Fortunately, it would not benefit Quintin to be told of her mother’s passing this day as opposed to delaying until the morrow or the day after. It might even be kinder to permit her the extra time in which to be free of the weight of that heartache.

  In contrast, it would be of great benefit to all if Bayard could put an end to Agatha’s evil reign.

  “It seems, Lady Thomasin,” he said, “my visit to Castle Mathe must be postponed a short while.”

  “Then ’tis quite serious, this ill that befalls my friend?”

  Struggling to keep distaste from his face, he said, “You will have to trust me to explain it all later.”

  Annoyance began to line her brow, but a bob of her eyebrows cleared it. “What of your sister?”

  “I would ask that you share with your father the news of Lady Quintin’s loss so he will be prepared to release her to me when I return to Castle Mathe—and have him apprise my knight, Sir Victor, of the situation. As for Quintin, ’tis best she hears the tidings from me.”

  “Very well.” She looked to her father’s knight. “It seems, Sir Otto, ’twill be just you and me again.”

  “Your journey all the sooner completed astride.” Bayard nodded toward his men. “I shall lend you my sister’s horse.”

  “We shall say naught of it,” Lady Thomasin said before Bayard could caution her against doing so. Flighty this little bird might be, but she was not without wit that gave color to her otherwise unremarkable plumage. Hopefully, for Magnus Verdun’s sake, she had a greater store hidden away somewhere.

  “I thank you,” Bayard said.

  A quarter hour later, the two parties went their separate ways, Bayard’s backtracking and swinging east.

  Providing the skies remained clear and the air continued to stir itself to no more than a whisper, the two-hour ride would deliver them to the lake shortly after nightfall. And that could be a good thing, for the dark would more easily make Agatha the prey she deserved to be.