Lady in Red - A Medieval Romance (The Sword of Glastonbury Series Book 8)

by Shea,Lisa

Jessame nodded in resolution. She would do what nobody else seemed willing to do – to pursue the killer and bring him to justice.

  Chapter 4

  Jessame stood in the entryway of the church for a long moment, breathing in the rich incense, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She drew in the familiar sight of the two rows of polished wooden pews, the sturdy wooden timbers of the walls, the simple podium behind which Father Stockman gave his sermon each week. She had not been in the church since she was sixteen, not since her father became too ill to leave the house, but she remembered her times here with fondness.

  Gratitude swelled in her heart that this Sunday, at least, she would be able to share in the ceremony.

  Her eyes moved up to the opposite wall and she smiled. The old, worn cross had been replaced in the intervening years, and she sensed Roger’s fine handiwork in the beautiful replacement which now hung there.

  She stepped forward into the empty hall, her feet by long habit leading her up the center aisle toward the first row, where she and her father had sat alongside Berenger and his father, Aldric. The men had sandwiched the two children in the middle, and Jessame smiled as she remembered how they would pass the time. She would lay her palm open on the pew between them, and Berenger would carefully trace one letter after another into her hand, spelling out the words of a message. Then she would respond. They carried on entire conversations with each other on Sunday mornings, delighting in their secret.

  A sharp cry came from behind her. “You, woman!”

  Jessame jolted to the present, realizing she was standing by the front pew, her hand on its back. She turned, watching as Lady Cavendish, her ermine trimmed cloak draped around her shoulders, came striding down the aisle, her eyes sharp.

  “The front pews are occupied,” Lady Cavendish snapped in a huffy voice.

  Jessame dropped her eyes. It would do no good to make a scene at the church. She wanted to be the loose woman of the community, not the pariah. She made her way quietly toward the back of the church.

  Lord Cavendish was just entering, his greying hair and portly belly ensconced in a finely embroidered gold tunic. Jessame found herself staring at him for a long moment. Lord Cavendish was older than her father, but not by much. This would be how her father could look, if he had not been struck down by illness, if he was not curled up on the couch at home, barely able to walk across the room. Her father could be the one striding down the aisle, his head tall, his eyes sharp, his walk smooth and strong.

  Jessame’s throat tightened. There was no help in wishing for impossibilities. Her father’s life had taken a different path, and she had to count her blessings that he was still alive. He could still talk with her, still share his thoughts.

  Lord Cavendish turned, his eyes catching her gaze. He looked Jessame up and down with a long, wolfish stare, his eyes drinking in her form with greedy attention. He offered a knowing grin, holding it for a long moment. Then he turned and strode forward to take his place by his young wife.

  There was a movement in the entryway, and Berenger and Cassandra stepped into the foyer, her hand gently on his arm. Jessame’s breath caught in her throat. They could have been bride and groom, making their way into the church, Cassandra’s golden curls lit by the sun, her eyes gleaming with youth. And Berenger …

  She found herself struck again with just how much he had matured and grown, how his shoulders had broadened, how his arms rippled as he moved. His dark hair lay in waves against his shoulders, looking as if she could run her fingers through it.

  His eyes swung to meet hers and she blushed, turned away, moved quickly to the last pew and slid into the back corner.

  He had left her. He had abandoned her, and not turned back.

  Her fingers gripped the pew back before her, the knuckles turning white. For so long he had been a dream to her, a longing, a pleading in her heart. And now he was there before her, and it seemed as if insurmountable walls separated them.

  “Could I sit here?”

  Jessame’s eyes flew up in shock. Roger was standing at the end of the row, his worn eyes looking down at hers. She struggled to regain her composure, pulling on a smile, easing further down the pew.

  “Yes, of course,” she agreed. “If you do not mind the censure.”

  Roger’s eyes glanced half in disdain at the townsfolk who were filling in the rest of the room. “I hardly worry about that,” he commented. “We all deserve to receive the Lord’s blessings.”

  Mary’s gentle voice drifted over them. “A good morning to you both,” she offered, sliding in next to Roger, leaving a demure distance between them. “I was barely able to wake up in time; I am glad I made it.”

  Roger’s eyes creased into a frown. “Another late night at the behest of those Cavendishes?”

  Mary nodded. “Yes, another pair of dresses had to be ready for today. Apparently they are having some sort of a party up at the house.”

  Roger shook his head. “You should not allow them to work you so hard, Mary. They barely show any appreciation for the effort you invest into your work, although clearly they prefer you over any other seamstress within miles.”

  Mary shrugged softly. “I can use the money, and I enjoy creating outfits from such fine fabrics. It is all right.”

  There was a motion at the front of the hall, and the quiet conversations drew to a close as Father Stockman mounted his small platform. In a moment the mass began, and Jessame allowed herself to get lost in the flow of the language, in the rich beauty of it.

  She had so missed coming to church, all these long years. She had been fourteen when her father’s health had made a sharp turn for the worse, when she clung by his side, consumed with worry. By sixteen when it had become clear just how serious his malady was. She had then completely shut herself in with him, unwilling to venture past the grounds of their home. Eight long years of virtual seclusion, and it had seemed as if everything slowly disintegrated around them. They had to sell off their wagons, their farm equipment … she still remembered the almost suffocating sadness she had felt when she handed the reins of her beloved horse to the stableman, had watched Misty walk out of her life.

  Just as Berenger had.

  She looked up to where his dark head sat in the first row alongside the glowing blonde of Cassandra. That had been where she had sat with him, all those long years ago, playing their message games. Her heart fell. Would he now teach that game to Cassandra?

  She sighed, looking down at her hands. She could only hope that things stayed as they were for a few more weeks. Jessame still had a window of opportunity to track down the murderer.

  There was a movement from the front of the church, and she pulled herself back to the present with an effort. Father Stockman was finishing up with the mass and turning to face his congregation.

  “I want to thank you all again for coming,” he offered warmly, his crinkled eyes shining with pleasure. “Our community is a precious resource. Individuals standing alone can be buffeted by misfortune and grief. It is when we stand together, side by side, that we can overcome any hurdle, achieve any goal.” His eyes moved down to Berenger. “We are glad to have Berenger safely home to us again from his travels in the Holy Land. He demonstrated the full aspect of community love and charity when he opened his home to all this past Friday evening. He deserves the highest of praise for his Christian expression of brotherly love.”

  His eyes slid down the row to where Lady Cavendish sat, and he held her with a calm, patient stare.

  All eyes followed his, and Jessame stifled a wide smile as the woman stiffened, hunched in slightly as if to avoid the attention, and then finally gave up. Lady Cavendish’s shoulders dropped, and she stood regally, turning to face the group.

  “Ahem, yes,” she stated, clearing her throat. “We are, indeed, holding a small gathering at our home later this afternoon. It would be our pleasure if the good townsfolk of our community would attend.”

  There was a murmur of interest and deligh
t, and Father Stockman smiled broadly in thanks. “That is a most noble offering, Lady Cavendish, and one that demonstrates well your bountiful and generous nature.” His eyes swept out amongst the congregation, and Jessame felt sure that he stopped on hers for a long minute, including her in his welcome. “I hope to see each of you there to help strengthen our bonds of community and fellowship.”

  Then he was giving the final blessing, and the crowd was stirring, rising, stretching, and streaming out into the bright summer’s golden glow.

  Roger turned to Mary with a smile. “This will be lovely,” he offered to her. “You shall get to see your fine creations in action, and have some food and drink as an extra reward for your efforts.” He blushed slightly, and then continued, “Would you like me to accompany you on the walk there?”

  Mary’s eyes sparkled, and she put a hand gently on his arm. “I would be quite delighted to go with you,” she accepted quietly. She turned then to Jessame. “Would you like to come with us as well? It is only a short walk to the east, perhaps a half mile or so. The Cavendish house is hard to miss; it is a beautiful two-story mansion perched high on a hill.”

  Jessame held in the reply that of course she knew where the house was; she had roamed all over the town as a child. She reminded herself again that the townsfolk had thankfully not made the connection between the quiet, shy, flaxen-haired girl she had been and the rambunctious, ebony curled vixen in a flame red dress who now strode their streets with head held high. The longer she could maintain that separation, the better her chances for success.

  She looked between Roger and Mary. She knew that what they needed was some time alone, to lose themselves in each other’s company.

  “I have some things to do back at my home first,” she demurred with a regretful smile. “I appreciate the invitation, but I will follow along soon enough.”

  Roger opened his mouth to counter, but a voice came from behind them, smooth and sure. “Not to worry, Roger. You go ahead with Mary. I will ensure our friend here makes it safely to the get-together.”

  Jessame turned, caught at once by the depth of Berenger’s eyes, at the serenity which lay beyond. Then there was a blonde flounce at his side, and Cassandra’s voice was honey laced with ice.

  “But Berenger, I had assumed you would be escorting me back to my sister’s home,” she pouted petulantly.

  “You will be safe enough with your sister and Lord Cavendish,” responded Berenger evenly. “I, too, have something I must do before I arrive at the party, and her home is right along the way.”

  Cassandra looked as if she would argue, but she glanced at Berenger’s eyes. Jessame saw the steadiness in them, and she knew that look. He would not be turned from his purpose. Apparently the meaning was clear to Cassandra, for she pursed her lips, pulling a smile back onto her face with visible effort. “That will give me time to change into something even more becoming,” she purred tightly. “Do not keep me waiting long.” She held his eyes for a long moment before turning to hook her arm in her sister’s, heading out of the church at a glide.

  Berenger swept his hand to indicate Jessame should precede him, and in a moment Jessame and he were walking down the warm dirt path. As they moved along the outskirts of the village, a pair of doves warbled in the trees off to the right, and the houses and shops drifted behind into the distance.

  They had been walking for a while before Berenger broke the quiet. “That was a kind thing you did back there,” he commented. “I imagine you wanted to give Roger and Mary some time alone.”

  Jessame’s mouth curved up in a smile. “They, of all people, deserve their chance at love,” she responded. “Mary is the gentlest person I know, and Roger has the heart to match.”

  Berenger’s eyebrow quirked up. “Surely every person is deserving of love?”

  A sharp pain stabbed at Jessame’s heart, and she pushed it away with effort. The doves’ warbling came to her again, and she suddenly was reminded of the tales her father loved to share of Greek myths, of the heartache and pain which often accompanied romantic feelings.

  She took in a deep breath, letting her eyes drift down the quiet dirt road which wended before them through the scattering of trees. “My father would say that the challenges of love are found throughout history,” she pointed out. “Aphrodite, goddess of the doves, was a prime example. Hephaestus was the Greek god of craftsmen, and he married her. He adored his beautiful wife. However, she tended to have her heart set on other men.”

  She sighed, lowering her eyes. “Love does not always work out smoothly. Love is not necessarily both sets of eyes gazing blissfully in the same direction.”

  Berenger nodded at her, matching her stride easily. “Your example – Aphrodite and Hephaestus - that was not true love,” he countered. “What Roger and Mary have, that is true love. They adore each other, they appreciate each other’s talents, and they would not have each other change in any way.” He glanced over at Jessame for a moment. “With Hephaestus, he longed for a person who did not match him. He wanted to bend her, to forge her into his ideal woman as he did the metals he worked. She would not be bent. That is a recipe for disaster.”

  Jessame pursed her lips, rolling the idea around in her mind for a few minutes. “Perhaps you are right,” she agreed at last. “True love would blossom between two people who adore each other as they are and who are admired for what they are. A love which is forced or tricked would not seem to be a love that could last.”

  Her eyes gazed out into the distance. “However, I would add that love should still encourage a person to be the best they could. Roger is a skilled craftsman – and I believe with Mary at his side he could reach heights he did not think possible. Mary is an amazing seamstress, and I think that buoyed by Roger’s love she will turn out dresses to rival any at the King’s court.”

  They rounded a corner and Jessame’s quiet cottage came into view, the dappling of rose blossoms catching the light around its base. Jessame smiled at the sight. It was small, and humble, but it was neat, well kept, and hers. She was proud of what she had created.

  They walked up to the door and Jessame pressed it open. Berenger moved in slowly behind her, his eyes sweeping the room with curiosity. She saw his eyes move to the table and realized with shock that her wax tablet tally-board of murderers lay there. She crossed quickly to it, flipping it over in a smooth motion so only the polished wood back lay upright besides the thin stylus. His eyebrow quirked at her motion, then he continued his perusal of the room, drawing his eyes up to a small fish tapestry which hung on one wall.

  She stepped up beside him. “That one is a perch,” she commented absently, her eyes taking in its orderly rows of black and white stripes, the splashes of orange on its lower fins.

  His mouth widened into a gentle smile. “I know what that is,” he replied. “I used to catch those quite regularly when I was a child.”

  Jessame’s heart twisted. Yes, he had caught many perch, laughing in contentment at her side, basking under the warm summer sun, the languorous buzz of bees in the air …

  Her tone turned petulant and sharp. “Well, I wonder that you might have forgotten, as you left England for ten long years.”

  His response held the assurance of a vow.

  “I did not forget one thing.”

  She fought the urge to turn, to look into his eyes, to see just what lay in their depths.

  He had left her.

  She heard him move over toward the mantle, stop, and she turned at that, watching as he examined the items that lay out along its length.

  He picked up the horseshoe, turning it in curiosity. “What are these?”

  Jessame’s breath caught, thinking of the women they represented, the lives which had been brutally cut short.

  “Those are tokens of remembrance,” she found herself saying.

  Berenger’s voice was tight when he responded. “Oh, and who offered them?”

  She found she could not invent a response, could not even thin
k as he took up the polished wooden box in his hands, turning it around. It was etched in her mind that within the box lay the bent coin, Sabina’s token, and it was just there, just beyond his sight …

  His hands stopped suddenly, and he gazed more closely at the base of the box. “Roger made this,” he stated with certainty.

  Jessame blinked. It came back to her then. When she was young, Millie had celebrated her thirtieth birthday, and her father had indeed bought Millie a small box from Roger to celebrate. The box had sat on the top shelf in the pantry for many years, holding who knew what odds or ends. For Jessame it had become a fixture of the household, something that had blended into the background.

  She had completely forgotten that Roger had made it.

  Her voice was hoarse. “Yes, that is Roger’s work.”

  Berenger put the box back onto the mantle with a sharp click, turning away.

  She drew her eyes along Berenger’s broad shoulders, the firm muscles of his arms, and fierce longing pulsed through her. She pushed it away with stern effort. She did not have the luxury of indulging in dreams. There was work to be done. And, right now, that involved returning to Cassandra’s event.

  Her voice came out in a rasp. “If you need to go home, then I am happy to wait here for your return.”

  He glanced around in surprise, then nodded as awareness returned to him. “Oh, the party,” he commented. “I imagine I made the same excuse you did, and for the same reason. I have no real reason to return home.” His eyes twinkled for a moment. “Cassandra did comment that she wanted me to wear a gold lined tunic she had bought for me, but I have to admit that it does not suit me.”

  Jessame ran her eyes down his current outfit. He was wearing a simple leather tunic with a quiet but well executed design down its edges. His boots were polished and well cared for. The sword at his hip was not elegant, but it had been oiled recently, and she had no doubt its edge was sharp.

  “I think you are quite fine as you are,” she found herself agreeing quietly.

  He was perusing her as well, his eyes lost for a moment. “And red suits you,” he offered at last. “Although if you wish to change, I am happy to wait outside while you do.”