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

by Shea,Lisa

  “I suppose,” agreed Cassandra, not seeming as if her heart were in the statement.

  Lord Cavendish pushed himself up from the table. “We shall just have to have you back again, then, Berenger,” he offered warmly. “It was good to be able to talk about the old times, to relive past glories.”

  Berenger nodded at the group. “We can certainly see about that,” he agreed amenably. “For now, the hour is late, and we must, unfortunately, be on our way.”

  The group moved into the entry hall and hugs were given all around. Cassandra’s hug to her was formal and brief, but when the blonde moved on to Berenger it seemed as if she pressed the entire length of her form against him. Jessame had to force herself to keep breathing, to rein in the sharpness that she felt creeping into her gaze.

  Lord Cavendish came to stand before her, interrupting her efforts. “You must return again soon; I insist upon it,” he stated with bright eyes, his gaze moving down her body for a long moment before he drew her into a hearty hug. Suddenly it was her own situation she was caught up in. She knew she could not do anything to raise suspicion with her hosts, but she sighed with relief as the man finally stepped back from her, even holding back a smile as he worked to disentangle his cuff from her hair.

  Then, at long last, she and Berenger were descending the elegant front steps. The way was well lit by a ring of torches which extended down around the front gravel driveway. Berenger’s horse and her beloved Misty were brought by a servant, and the front door closed.

  Berenger swept a hand along the side of her face, relief echoing in every motion. “It is done,” he whispered. “Soon the token will be back by your heart, never to leave there again.”

  She smiled at that, tucking her finger beneath her chemise, drawing out the thin gold chain and laying the token on the green fabric. “It already is.”

  His brow creased in worry. “Are you sure that was wise?”

  She took a step toward him. “As if I could leave it behind, after all we have been through,” she murmured. “Another minute would have been too long. And besides, in just a few hours …”

  There was a startled intake of breath. They turned, startled, stepping apart. Lord Cavendish stood there, Jessame’s green shawl in one hand, his eyes fixated on the curled coin token which gleamed in the bright torchlight. His voice was sharp with surprise.

  “Where did you get that?”

  Chapter 22

  Jessame’s world slowed to a crawl. She stared at Lord Cavendish, baffled beyond all reckoning. Was he somehow involved in his wife or sister-in-law’s misdeeds? She had assumed that one of the women was doing this activity secretly, but what if the entire family was involved? Did they work as a team? Or was Lord Cavendish an innocent bystander in all of this, blissfully unaware of the heinous deeds being perpetrated right beneath his nose?

  He gave himself a shake, a friendly smile drawing back onto his lips. “It looks like one I gave a childhood sweetheart, long ago,” he offered, and held up the shawl. “I believe you left this behind again.”

  Jessame’s heart resumed beating at a more even pace. She was seeing danger in every corner now. Only a few more minutes and they would be heading safely home. “Of course, thank you,” she offered, reaching forward.

  Lord Cavendish gave a sharp twist, she was spinning in his grasp, and suddenly her back was pressed hard against his chest, the thin edge of his dagger firmly against her throat. She froze, feeling the metal rise and fall with each gulp of air she drew in. Berenger’s eyes were sharp on her captor’s, his hand floating just above his hilt.

  The waft of an aroma came to her, and she blinked in surprise. Surely the man did not wear peony perfume. It made no sense at all. But she had been positive that the scent she smelled on Mary was the same that …

  Suddenly, everything fell into place. Mary had smelled that way because she had been near the Cavendish women earlier in the day. Undoubtedly Lord Cavendish had smelled of peony for the same reason – he had spent time with his wife or sister-in-law shortly before making his way to her small cottage to deliver the killing blow.

  Lord Cavendish ran his thumb along her neck and let out a low growl. “You are the same woman,” he cut out. “I should have known that you were too similar by far. I saw those same hives on your neck at Berenger’s party. You have that same aroma about you, of cut grass and sunshine. And here I thought I had erased your poisonous influence from our village.”

  Berenger’s voice was tight and low. “Cavendish, let her go.”

  Lord Cavendish glanced up at Berenger. “I am doing you a favor,” he shot out. “Man to man. This woman is solely after your money! I hear the past week has been nothing but you buying furniture for her bedroom, curtains for her dining room, and even fixing up her stables. She will bleed you dry, and I doubt she even has the grace to say thank you.”

  Jessame’s face drained of all color. There was some truth to what Lord Cavendish was saying. In her joy of having her home rebuilt, she had not given any thought to how it was all being funded.

  Berenger was shaking his head. “The money comes from ten long years that we both dedicated to being together,” he insisted hoarsely. “Both of us endured pain and hardship; both of us wished with all our hearts to be together again. The payment is ours to spend together, to build our new lives together as a family.”

  Lord Cavendish scoffed. “What, and you will maintain two households then?”

  Berenger’s eyes never left Lord Cavendish’s. “My father’s house will shortly be sold,” he returned. “As soon as Jessame’s house is ready, we will move the few remaining items into it, and I shall never step foot in my father’s home again.” His smile softened slightly. “The home I am restoring is where I want to live. I have considered that building to be my own home, my own safe retreat, from when I was very young.”

  The knife’s tension at Jessame’s neck increased a fraction. “So this seductress began her work on you at an early age,” he snarled.

  Berenger grew still. His gaze sharpened on Lord Cavendish, all of his attention on the man’s eyes. His voice was even and low.

  “Lord Cavendish, this is between you and me,” he stated, his eyes steady. “Man to man. She is just a woman; she is solely a spectator to how men settle issues. You have said so yourself, many times. There is no need to use a woman as a shield.” His hand dropped to rest on the hilt of his sword. “You and I should settle this amongst ourselves, the way it should be done. The way that earned you such honor in your many tournaments.”

  “Between men,” murmured Lord Cavendish, his eyes brightening. He drew his gaze down the length of Berenger’s form with growing delight. “A real fight, at last, and not these skulkings in the dark with none to note the glory of the deed.”

  “Exactly,” pressed Berenger. “She can watch you in action. At last she can appreciate the true strength of your skill.”

  Jessame’s heart pounded in furious rhythm. Would Berenger’s words draw Cavendish into their net?

  To her relief, the cold metal of the knife withdrew from her neck. She drew in a deep, grateful breath of air. Without warning she was being shoved to the side of the ring, and Lord Cavendish had drawn his sword with a flourish. Instantly Berenger had his own sword out before him and was circling to ensure he was between the man and Jessame.

  Jessame drew up into a crouch, moving back to the edge of the torchlight, giving Berenger room to work. The horses nervously skittered back on the other side, and the two men began tracing a circle in the glowing torchlight. Their footsteps on the gravel surface became the only sound in the deep night air.

  Lord Cavendish’s voice was wheedling, petulant. “What are we fighting for? You know those cullings had to be done,” he insisted. “If you would simply join up with me, think of how much more good we could do!”

  Berenger’s voice was cool. “You will be brought to the sheriff and made to answer for your crimes,” he stated without hesitation.

  Lord Caven
dish gave a snort. “I have taken down better men than you,” he snapped, and then he was in motion, swinging his blade in a high, glittering arc, aiming to cleave Berenger’s right arm from his body.

  Berenger ducked beneath the blow, slamming his sword left to continue the blade’s momentum, then twisted the tip to come down sharply toward Lord Cavendish’s neck. Lord Cavendish leapt back a pace, the sword tip whistling just in front of his chest. He sprung forward, pulling his blade up toward Berenger’s thigh.

  Berenger spun his right side back, just avoiding the deadly blow, lunging forward with his left leg, whirling his blade up and around to come down toward Lord Cavendish’s right shoulder.

  Lord Cavendish dodged, and Jessame could barely follow the blur of blade and fist and movement that followed as the men dove and thrust in the wavering light and shadow. She stood transfixed in place, wanting to help, but knowing the best thing she could do was leave the ring of light clear, remain utterly silent, and not distract Berenger from his skillful opponent.

  There was a movement on the front steps, and then Cassandra’s scream pierced the night. “Berenger!”

  He glanced up for a second and Lord Cavendish saw his opening. He drove hard, arcing his blade high over his left shoulder, driving it down to cleave Berenger’s head in half.

  Berenger brought his sword sharply across to the left, using Lord Cavendish’s momentum to finish the swing just past Berenger’s left shoulder. Then, with a hard reversal, he drove his sword tip down across Lord Cavendish’s chest, digging a diagonal red furrow from shoulder to waist. The man fell back onto the gravel driveway with an agonized groan.

  Lady Cavendish and Cassandra ran to his side, flinging themselves on their knees. They glanced between Berenger and Lord Cavendish in wild-eyed confusion.

  Lord Cavendish growled up at Berenger. “We are men of the world!” he snapped, his hand moving in a vain attempt to hold back the vigorous spurts of blood. “We know all women are whores, and the blatant ones must be slain. It is by making an example of the worst of their sex that we keep the rest behaving properly. We remind the sluts of what will happen if they step too far out of line.”

  He spared a dismissive glance at his young wife before returning his eyes to Berenger’s. “Many times I have contemplated taking the route your father, Aldric, did,” he growled. “Your father certainly knew how to keep your mother docile. But she was a frail creature, and shortly after you were born she sustained an injury that did her in. I could not risk that yet with my wife, not before she did her duty and gave me a stable of boys.”

  Jessame’s eyes flew to Berenger. His body was stiff, his eyes shadowed, but he did not look surprised. She wondered just how many pains he had shouldered in his life. She suddenly realized that, whatever she had gone through in these past ten years, that Berenger had been burdened with far, far worse.

  Her voice held tight confusion when she spoke. “But your story in the church,” she prodded, shaking her head. “You advised Aldric not to hit his wife. Surely he is the one you were speaking of?”

  Lord Cavendish gave a short laugh, a burst of bloody spittle spewing from his mouth. “Ah yes, the famous story,” he agreed. “Dear Father Gilman overheard me talking with Aldric and got a gist of some of what I said. When he pressed me on it, I created a perfect frame for it that Roger would have been proud of. Father Gilman loved the package, apparently enough to share it with others.”

  His eyes shone more brightly. “But do you know what I was actually advising Aldric? I was warning him to take more care with his own body. Just the week before, Hosea’s father had hit the boy across the face and managed to break two fingers in the process. The doctor said his hand would take a month to heal properly. A month!” He snorted. “Can you imagine losing the use of your hand for a month, all due to the necessary task of disciplining a child or wife?”

  He shook his head in disbelief, looking down as the stream of blood slowed in its course between his fingers. “Life is too short for that,” he muttered. “Far too short to risk injuring a hand. Better to use a stick, or a staff.”

  Jessame shook her head at the twisted logic which worried about causing damage to the hand which sent a blow at a defenseless woman or child. She thought of Aldric, a muscular bull of a man, raising a cudgel to rain punishments down on his wife, or on the young boy who had once been Berenger.

  She moved over to stand beside Berenger, leaning against him slightly. He wrapped his left arm around her, his right still holding the sword between them and the man at their feet.

  Berenger’s voice was clear and certain. “Women are treasures; they are more precious than gold or diamonds.” His breath settled into deeper draws, easing. “I for one will defend mine with my life.”

  Lord Cavendish’s eyes moved to the token at Jessame’s chest, and then over to Berenger again. His eyes widened with understanding. Then the light within them faded slowly. In another moment his body movement ceased.

  There was a long moment of silence, and then Lady Cavendish pushed herself shakily to stand. She spared one last look for the man at her feet, her gaze a mixture of pity and disapproval. Then she turned to look at Berenger and Jessame.

  Her eyes lowered for a moment. “I still find it hard to believe my husband could have been involved in murder. He seemed barely about to rouse himself to attend to his social duties; never mind to mastermind and plan out these horrendous actions. It goes to show how little I knew this man who shared my bed.”

  She gave herself a shake. “But it all falls into place now. His trips on certain days, his pleasure with himself as he returned. The sly comments he would make about how he was improving our world.”

  Her voice became flat, without heat or emotion. “The sheriff is a pig of a man,” she stated. “He was also a friend of my husband’s. If we involve him, he could easily drag you into holding and keep you there for years while he claimed he was ‘investigating’ the issue of my husband’s death.”

  Berenger’s grasp around Jessame’s waist did not waver. “What do you suggest?”

  Lady Cavendish’s gaze was clear. “My husband died in a hunting accident,” she stated. “Tragic, but not uncommon. We will bury him on his lands as he has always wanted.”

  Her eyes moved to the token at Jessame’s chest. “Further, as a memorial to his compassion toward others, we will set up funds for each of the young women whose lives were sadly cut short.”

  Jessame let out a long exhale, and leaned against Berenger. It was all over. At long last, justice had been brought.

  Lady Cavendish nodded at them both. “You had best get going; it is getting late,” she added, glancing over at their horses. “There should be no question about who was present when this sad mishap occurred.”

  Berenger nodded, then turned and helped Jessame onto Misty. In a moment he was mounted at her side, and the two were moving off into the night, heading back toward their home.

  Chapter 23

  Jessame’s heart fluttered in nervous anticipation. A rich babble of happy voices resounded outside her bedroom window. It seemed as if the entire village had turned out for the wedding, filling the grassy meadow between her home’s front steps and the fish pond below. Poles with colorful streamers decorated every corner, and baskets of flowers sent delicate fragrances tickling along the breeze.

  Mary gave a slight tug to the laces at her neck, finishing the bow there. Jessame drew her hands down the fabric in pleasure. Mary had surely reached her ultimate expression of beauty with this outfit. Somehow she had created a tapestry of green and red, a thousand emerald petals and grasses and gentle meadows on which danced crimson roses.

  Jessame’s hair was braided along the crown, with large rose blooms tucked into the weave, but the rest was left loose, descending in a riotous mass of curls to her waist.

  Mary’s voice was warm at her side. “You are gorgeous,” she murmured. “Are you ready?”

  “Absolutely,” sighed Jessame. She had waited ten lon
g years for this day. At last it was finally here.

  She made her way down the stairs, turning right past the dining room to step into her father’s study. Gauze curtains hung before the windows, rippling slightly in the breeze, giving him privacy from the throngs outside. He sat by the window, drinking in the excitement, and he turned with a smile as she approached.

  “My dear, you are as lovely a bride as your mother was,” he murmured, his eyes shining. “I am so proud of you.”

  Her mouth quirked up into a smile. “What, no quote?” she teased.

  He held a hand out to her, and she took it, kneeling before him.

  “Aristotle said it best of all. Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.”

  Tears came to her eyes, and she kissed him tenderly on his bandaged cheek. Then he was waving her on, and she was turning, moving to walk through the study and out the front door.

  All eyes turned to her, all voices murmured in praise. Roger and Mary stood to the left, Mary’s daffodil-yellow dress glowing in the sun, their arms wrapped around one another tenderly. To the right stood Baldric and Denise, their young faces shining with delight. There was Rudyard and Millie, and the countless villagers who she had spoken with and welcomed over the past week.

  By the edge of the pond stood Lady Cavendish and her sister. Their faces were solemn, and she held their gaze for a long moment. Jessame knew that it was due to their tireless efforts that this wedding had come together so smoothly. She had also accompanied the women as they had visited each victim’s home, had talked with the family, and had presented them with gifts to help them survive the coming years. Jessame had seen another side of the women, one with rich compassion, open with sympathy for the loved ones ravaged by grief.

  She took another step forward, and suddenly the only person she saw, the only vision which filled her mind, was Berenger. He stood patiently, proudly, a tunic of green and crimson mirroring her own. He waited on the large, flat rock by the pond, Father Stockman just behind him.