So, Vachel thought, Nicolaus would be able to fulfill his commitment to Prince John. He would provide some of the prince’s forces a safe landing place and they would be able to take Lewes, which Nicolaus had weakened by removing most of its men-at-arms and provisions. It seemed he would have a safe haven after all. Nonetheless, there was no sense in going to Telscombe now. Nicolaus had made it clear enough that Vachel would not be welcome until he brought with him news of Simon’s death.
Chapter Seventeen
A week of tense misery and confusion followed for Alex. The time immediately after Frewyn’s death was too busy to allow for much thought, so busy that it was two days before he realized Vachel was gone. Messengers had been sent, not only to Sir Simon at Roselynde but to Frewyn’s sons and sister, nephews and nieces. The whole family was sorry, all having been fond of Frewyn, but no one was grief stricken, having expected this news for many months.
Their presence blurred the terrible suspicions in Alex’s and Desiree’s minds. All spoke lovingly of Frewyn, recounting tales of his humor and wisdom. In particular, Paul gave much of his attention to Desiree, apologizing to her for his early suspicions of her, praising her for her goodness to his father and for making an old man’s last years so very happy.
Desiree thanked him, but what she wanted to do was scream aloud that she was the cause of her husband’s death, that Alex, deceived by his desire for her and believing he was doing what Frewyn wanted, had given poor Frewyn a strong sleeping draught which had been too much for his weakened body. She had tried to tell Father Harold when they first discovered the drugs in Frewyn’s wine, but she could not name Alex a murderer, not if she was hanged for the crime herself. And Father Harold would not listen. He only assured her over and over that she was not to blame.
She later realized that Father Harold feared Frewyn himself had put the drugs in the wine and was determined not to know so that his old friend and dear master would not be banished to the unhallowed grave of a suicide. She knew the priest was telling himself that the death was a mistake, that Frewyn had just wanted calm and rest after the excitement and energy Lady Alinor’s remedy had provided.
She knew that Father Harold had comforted Elias and Pollock when they woke, assured them that they had done no wrong—to prevent them from confessing that they had added something to the wine at Frewyn’s instructions. He explained that Frewyn had probably slipped away in his sleep less than half a candlemark after he closed his eyes, that likely the silence after his death had permitted them to sleep more soundly than usual.
This agony, this mingled revulsion for and even greater desire for Alex, who had killed a man he loved to have her, was her punishment. She would never speak; this was her cross to bear, the crown of thorns around her heart.
It was easier at first because she did not exchange so much as a word with Alex for the whole week during which Frewyn’s family arrived for his funeral. Alex no longer sat beside her at table, that place was given to Paul, and he had given up his chamber to one of Frewyn’s younger sons, finding a bed with Byford and Godric. He was not part of the family so stood well back during the services. But Desiree could not help noticing that he wept as if heartbroken then and when Frewyn was buried.
Then they were all gone and only the raw earth mounded over Frewyn’s grave was a reminder. When the last one, Frewyn’s youngest sister, the only sibling still living in his immediate family, departed, weeping and supported by her eldest son, Desiree stood staring stupidly across the nearly empty hall.
“My lady.”
Desiree jumped and drew a deep breath. “Yes, Father?”
The priest stood looking at her, his face almost gray, his eyes empty. “What… What am I to do now, my lady?” His voice quavered and he seemed shrunken.
Wondering what she herself was to do now, Desiree remembered that Frewyn had been a well-liked man in the shire and even beyond. Letters had arrived for him from time to time from men he had served with on the king’s—or more likely considering Richard’s long absence—dowager queen’s business. At the moment Desiree could not bear the thought of needing to answer one of those letters.
“First, Father, I would beg you to go through all of Frewyn’s documents and to write to every man and woman who had corresponded with him. Tell each of Frewyn’s…that Frewyn is gone. And if any of the letters seem to contain unfinished business, do what you can…”
“Of course,” the priest said, seeming to recover his more upright stance. “I should have thought of that myself. And I will also write to the bailiffs of the farms that are now yours as bride price. They should be told that all rights are now vested in you. Hmm. I am glad Paul raised no questions about those properties. He asked me whether Frewyn had written a new will, you know.”
Desiree found a faint smile. “I supposed so when he was so kind. I think he was always afraid that I would wrest more lands or a large sum of money out of Frewyn in his dotage—” Her voice caught and she bit her lip, then smiled again. “But his wits never failed, not for a moment. How he would have hated that. Worse than the failure of his body. Perhaps…”
“Even in our loss and sorrow, there are things for which to be grateful,” the priest interrupted, and turned away to find the boxes in which Frewyn’s documents were kept.
Staring after him, Desiree thought that she need never fear that Father Harold would ever mention the drugs in Frewyn’s wine. In a way it was a relief, in a way another stab in the heart. Would Alex… No, she would not think about Alex. Someone else who might believe he had lost everything when Frewyn died… Ah, Elias.
It took her some time to find him but she ran him to earth at last in the place she should have looked first. He was sitting quietly by Frewyn’s bed, hands empty in his lap, eyes fixed on nothing.
“Ah, there you are,” Desiree said.
Elias raised empty eyes. “Father Harold has come and taken all my lord’s documents. He said you bade him write of Sir Frewyn’s death to all who knew him.”
“Yes, and I have sad work for you also, Elias. You will need to make lists of Frewyn’s clothing, his weapons and armor, his jewelry and other possessions and compare them with those items named in his will to be given away. We will need an accounting of the income he retained for himself. Whatever is left must be sent to Paul.”
Elias bent his head and blinked, fighting back tears, Desiree thought. But then he took a deep breath and stood.
“Yes, my lady.”
“And when you are finished with that, we must look at all my charters, adding in the lands that are mine through Frewyn. The charters must be written anew and attached to the older charters to be approved by Sir Simon as sheriff, and when that is possible signed and sealed by the king.”
“You have a wise head, my lady. I am ashamed that I did not begin that task already, but…but I was not sure that you would not want…a younger man for steward…”
Desiree took his hand. “Do not be so foolish, Elias. Now that Frewyn is gone—” she hesitated, swallowed “—all the more will I need your wisdom and your knowledge of what Frewyn would have done in this or that circumstance.”
Like Father Harold, Elias came more erect and his lax features firmed. His brows drew together. “Well, one thing my lord would have advised is that you go with Alex to the dower-right farms. They need to know him as your castellan and he needs to see the farms. Jeving’s farm is probably safe enough, being well inland, but Frist’s is on the hills not far from the coast. It is true there is no harbor there, but—”
“That can wait,” Desiree interrupted. “I-I do not think it is right for Al—for him to remain—”
While she had dealt with Father Harold and now Elias, giving them new hope and direction, she had found some relief. With the mention of Alex’s name, grief had seized her anew by the throat. She could barely force out the words, sounding to herself like a strangled cat. She must have sounded strange to Elias also, because he put out a hand as if to support her. Desiree c
ould not bear it.
The offer of comfort nearly broke her, and she turned and fled. However, she did not succeed in reaching the stair to the women’s quarters. Alex was standing a few steps away from Frewyn’s door. His face was as gray and stiff as stone.
“I must speak with you. Lady Desiree.” His voice sounded worse than hers. “I am sorry to intrude on…on your—” he swallowed convulsively “—your grief, but you are the Lady of Exceat…”
Her grief? Her horror! Her revulsion! Her maddening and irresistible desire! Her shame! Her rage and fury!
“Not here,” Desiree snarled. “Come with me and I will tell you of my grief.”
His complexion changed from gray to greenish and beads of sweat blossomed on his forehead. He started to shake his head, but Desiree’s seething emotions had to have some outlet before she boiled over in an inappropriate time and place. On Alex she could rightfully release all her horror and fury and shame without fear of betrayal. She seized his hand and dragged him toward the room in which the records were kept.
It was empty, as she expected. Elias would still be busy with listing Frewyn’s personal possessions and Father Harold with Frewyn’s personal documents. At first she had been afraid that Alex would set his feet—she could not have moved him—but when he saw where she was going he followed willingly enough. He thought, she believed, that she had business to discuss and would not confront him with murder. But he was wrong.
She slammed the door closed and noticed that he began to look uneasy again. “Yes,” she hissed, “you should look frightened, you murderer!”
“What?” he gasped.
Desiree paid no attention, spitting out the poison in her soul. “Did you think I could ever bear to touch you again? How could you dare believe I wanted Frewyn dead? How could you let your lust tell you that Frewyn wanted to be dead when he was growing stronger?” She burst into tears, sobbing, “He could have had months more of life. How dared you! How dared you steal that from him!”
She fixed a furious gaze on him, but had to clench her hands together to prevent them from reaching out. And then she stared in surprise. Alex was looking back at her with astonishment…and joy…on his face. Gone were the sweat, the gray pallor, the trembling mouth.
“But, Desiree,” he said, shaking his head gently. “However much I wanted you, I wanted Frewyn alive too. I needed—” he sighed “—I still need him.” Then he smiled. “Besides, I could not have put the drugs in Frewyn’s wine—”
The liar! Fury surmounted every other emotion in Desiree. “Who told you of drugs in the wine? I did not and I am sure Father Harold did not.”
“No, but I saw you and Father Harold looking at the wine flagon and I suspected a strong sleeping draught had been added because Pollock and Elias did not wake when you screamed, and later Pollock complained of that sleep.”
That was true. Desiree now remembered that Alex had been in the room when she and Father Harold discovered the powder in the flagon. A trembling hope pregnant with joy came alive in her; desperately she suppressed it. To hope and have that hope killed…likely would kill her.
“What do you mean you could not have put the sleeping draught in the wine,” Desiree asked suspiciously. “Eadgyth told me that Byford took a double portion of the sleeping powder. I remember because I had to make more when Gunilda fell into the hearth and burned her arm.” Remembering her irritation made Desiree’s voice sharp. “That girl did not stop moaning and screaming for three days. I had to mix a triple strong dose for her so the rest of us could sleep.”
She noticed an arrested look come into Alex’s eyes, but his brow wrinkled and what he said was “Byford? For what would Byford need a sleeping draught? God knows with the training of the recruits atop his regular duties he must sleep sound as a rock. He could not have— Oh, yes. One of the apprentices we took was so clumsy he managed to break an arm.” He shook his head and made a gesture of dismissal. “That does not matter. Even if he had given me the powders, I could not have used them. Desiree, I was not here.”
Hope stirred in the bonds she had placed on it. Joy sparked. She remembered that Alex had not been at the evening meal.
“You were not here?” she whispered.
“No. I rode out soon after dinner.”
Once more she attempted to strangle hope. He must be lying, she thought. Now that he had seen she would not embrace him for having murdered Frewyn, he would try to claim innocence. “Alone?” she snapped.
He understood that she did not believe him. She saw his displeasure at her doubt of his honesty in his frown and the thinning of his lips, but he answered readily.
“Not alone. With a troop of twenty men who can vouch that we were nowhere near Exceat that whole afternoon and night. We brought the prisoners onto Lewes’s land to release them. Frewyn pointed out to me that if we let them loose anywhere else, they would likely prey on some innocent farmer or townsfolk. They were Lewes’s men, so let the folk of Lewes enjoy them. I was barely returned and out of my armor when I heard you screaming.”
Hope burst its bonds. Joy, shining, flew round and round in her head. Desiree was nearly stunned. For a little while, she simply stared at Alex trying to take in a complete reversal of all her thoughts, all her pain for a whole week. She put out a trembling hand, but Alex did not take it in his. Fear damped joy.
“But why did you act so…so guilty?” she made herself ask at last.
Alex blushed and averted his eyes.
“Alex?” she insisted and then drew a sharp breath, her own eyes widening. “You thought it was me! You heard… Eadgyth and I were near your door when I spoke of the dose for Gunilda. I remember. It was terrible being near your open door, as if you were reaching out to draw me in. I never walked so close to your door again. I hardly knew what I was saying.”
“No,” Alex said forcefully.
He was unwilling to confess that he had indeed thought she had murdered her husband out of lust for him. He was so glad that her frantic avoidance of him had been owing to her suspicion that he was guilty rather than guilt and regret for what she had done, that he was not angry. Deep inside there was a kind of gladness that her feeling for him was so strong, but atop that was shame. He was no fitting match for her and it was wrong, very wrong, to acknowledge that he believed she cared enough for him to commit murder.
But before he could speak again, Desiree’s hand dropped and she said, “But if you did not put the sleeping powder into Frewyn’s wine and I did not—who did?” Her hand rose to cover her lips. “Oh, no. Frewyn himself?”
Her face paled and she was shaken by cold terror. Frewyn was buried in hallowed ground because of Father Harold’s deliberate ignorance, but nothing could be hidden from God. Was Frewyn damned?
“No,” Alex said, frowning. “He could not have done it himself. He could hardly move. And I know Pollock did not get the drugs for him or put them in his wine.”
“Pollock?” Desiree suddenly remembered that Pollock had not been in his usual place in Frewyn’s room when she spoke to Elias just before she saw Alex, he had not been in the room at all. She could not remember having seen Pollock for days. “Where is Pollock?”
Alex sighed. “That is one of the things I needed to speak to you about. On the evening of the day Frewyn died, I found Pollock in my chamber, kneeling by my bed and weeping. The poor man was sick with weeping and he had come to beg me to have him whipped for sleeping when his master needed him.”
“Oh, poor thing,” Desiree said. “I know Father Harold tried to comfort him and Elias, and assure them that Frewyn would not have called out to them, that he died in his sleep. But I don’t think Father Harold would have mentioned the drugs. He was afraid that Frewyn sought death.”
Alex shook his head again. “No, not Frewyn. He could pray to God to release him, feeling his work here was done, and knowing God would do what was best for all. But he was not the kind of coward who would take an easy way out. I… It does not matter how I thought the drugs got in
the wine because I was wrong, but there was no reason for Pollock to suffer, so I told him he had been drugged and that he and Elias were not at fault.”
“You are right,” Desiree said. “You are right about both matters. Frewyn was not a coward. When he was first stricken he fought to recover and when he weakened and I begged him not to leave me, he fought to live so I would be protected. And certainly there was no need for Pollock to suffer. Well, but where is he? He could help Elias with gathering those things Frewyn willed to friends and family.”
Alex shrugged. “I am not sure where Pollock is at the moment, but he has—he says he has always been the servant of the master of Exceat and since, being male, he cannot be your servant, why then, he is mine. Desiree, I do not need a servant, but he is grieving so much for Frewyn and doing things for me seemed to help.”
Desiree laughed. It felt very peculiar, the air puffing out of her lungs and the sound. She realized she had not laughed once since Frewyn died.
“He may well be telling the truth—that is, he may have been my father’s servant and then attached himself to Frewyn after my father died. But what did he say when you told him about the drug?”
“That was very strange too. He didn’t say anything, just looked at me for a moment. Then he nodded and explained about being servant to the master of Exceat.” Alex paused, drew a deep breath and said, “That is something I must speak to you about also. I do not think it wise for me to remain as castellan here.”
“What? Why not? You said you did not kill Frewyn and I know I did not. We are innocent of his death. I am sorry for it. I miss him dreadfully. I think every moment that I will tell him this or ask him that. But now I am a widow. There is no longer any sin in our caring for each other. Why should you leave me?”
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