by Tamara Leigh
Dragging his hand down his face, he once more posed the question that threatened to draw and quarter him: Had Beatrix murdered? Though he was not yet ready to concede otherwise, there was one thing he would do. He would allow her the reach of the donjon providing she was accompanied by Squire Percival.
Michael looked to his splinted leg. Four weeks had passed since his fall at the abbey. And six days from now, the sheriff came for Beatrix. He raised the leg, turned it side to side, and extended his foot. Still there was discomfort, but it was time enough. He began removing the splints.
She was cold. Worse, her knees ached. Tempted though she was to add coals to the brazier and ease her weight from the latter, she prayed harder. Considering Michael had been at her back, she believed she had done well in defending herself. However, she would have to do better at trial.
“Unbind my tongue, Lord. Stand me as a rock before Baron Lavonne. And Michael. Deliver me.”
“You think He hears your prayers?”
She gasped. She had been too near the Lord to catch the sound of the intruder’s ascent of the stairs or the creak of the door.
Opening her eyes on her steepled hands, she hearkened back to the abbey when Michael had stolen upon her there. Much the same he had asked, though then he had named her a murderess.
She rose from her knees and turned to where he stood on the threshold. Though his staff was to hand, the splints were gone.
The sight of him standing firm momentarily wafted relief through her. True, he gave his uninjured leg more weight, but the unsplinted leg bore a good share. And she was a fool for noticing it, for caring for one who had no care for her. The same who had sent word to Baron Lavonne and thereafter come to lie with her.
As she had answered him at the abbey, she said, “God hears the prayers of all, even those undeserving of His g-grace.”
“Then also my brother?” he asked, though this time the question was absent derision.
What did he want? “To be heard, one must first pray, Lord D’Arci.”
Brow furrowing, he stepped forward. Though he continued to favor his hale leg, his stride was surprisingly smooth, and only a deeper furrowing of the brow attested to any discomfort.
“Why are you here?”
He halted before her. “Six days hence, the sheriff arrives to return you to Broehne Castle where you will stand trial.”
Though fear sought to sink its teeth into her, she stood against it. She had known the day would come—longed for it that, regardless of the outcome, there would be an end to her persecution. Now that the day was set, she would not shrink from it. “I shall be ready.”
“Will you?” He took another step toward her.
She lowered her gaze, stumbled around her mind, and found her place. However, when she looked up, the answer would not come off her tongue. Michael was too near. It made her ache, especially the masculine scent of him. It was not offensive. Merely, it reminded her of when he had last come to her.
She looked away. She did not care for Michael D’Arci, she told herself as she had done every day since he was last here. Indeed, if not that it would displease God, she would truly hate him. She lifted her chin. “I would be ready if today was the day.”
Something flickered in his eyes. “You would need to be.”
And the truth was that she might never be ready though over and again she recounted that day at the ravine. “That is all you came to tell?”
“Also that you will no longer be confined.”
Her pretense of indifference nearly puddled out from under her. “What do you mean?”
“Until you depart Soaring, you shall be allowed the reach of the donjon.”
Hope fluttered through her. Was it because of her audience with Lady Maude? Had she caused the woman to doubt her son’s innocence? Michael to doubt it as well?
Lord, to stretch her legs beyond ten paces! To see and smell and hear and touch things beyond these walls! “Why?”
“Squire Percival shall, of course, attend you at all times when you leave this room,” Michael disregarded her question.
Then he thought she might try to escape though she had told him she wished a trial—likely believed she had lied. Assuring herself she did not care what he believed of her, she wondered again why he would allow her to leave her prison.
“Anything else?” she asked.
He seemed to hesitate as if there was something, but turned away.
Beatrix crossed to the window and looked out across the castle walls. She waited, but no creak sounded, nor scrape or click. When she looked around, Michael was on the landing.
“I shall send Squire Percival with garments better fit for a lady,” he said.
She swept her gaze over the homespun gown that no longer bothered as it had done those first days. Still, it would be nice to once more wear the finery of a lady. “I thank you.”
He opened his hand and considered the key that had let him in. “If you will agree to remain in the tower until Squire Percival comes for you, I shall not lock the door.”
“I agree.”
He curled his fingers around the key and, leaving the door wide, turned his staff toward the stairs.
Beatrix stared at the empty landing as she listened to the sound of his descent. Telling herself it was not regret she felt when all that was left of him was silence, she turned back to the window. This eve she would not be alone. She would sit among the castle folk, share a trencher—
She was not going amongst people who would welcome her. Rather, she would be surrounded by those who believed ill of her. They would stare, whisper, perhaps speak their disdain aloud.
She momentarily considered remaining in her chamber but refused to be so fearful, especially as the freedom granted her meant she might seek out and avail herself of the chapel.
She set her jaw. Aye, this eve she would go belowstairs.
Blood fluttering through her veins, Beatrix descended the lowermost stairs, all the while telling herself she was prepared. It was not entirely true. Had Squire Percival delivered the lady’s gown as Michael had said he would, she could more easily endure what lay ahead, but he had not come.
Fearing Michael had changed his mind about allowing her among the castle folk, she had decided to bring her homespun belowstairs. He would not like it, but she had waited long enough.
From her window she had watched the men-at-arms answer the call to meal and pass their posts to others as twilight shuttered the land. Giving them enough time to reach the hall that she might join them as they entered and draw less attention to herself, she had left her prison for the second time in nearly a month.
With the din of the gathering of Soaring’s men ascending the stairs on brazen feet, Beatrix counted her footfalls to the bottom and paused to sweep her gaze around the hall. Unfortunately, more were seated than were not. Fortunately, their heads were turned and bent to conversation. As for the high table, its lord was not present.
Refusing to ponder Michael’s absence, Beatrix slid her gaze left and right of the lord’s chair. Nor was Lady Maude present, but there was Sir Canute. He did not yet see her, but he would. And when he did?
Hoping he would not call attention to her, she searched the lower tables for a place to take her meal. Though it would be proper for her to sit at the high table, and there was enough bench to do so, she was still a prisoner. Too, the homespun gown fit better with those who sat farthest from the dais.
Deciding on the lowermost table that was occupied by four men, she started forward. Thankfully, few paid her heed, and the reason for it became apparent as she made to step past a table and a thick hand turned around her upper arm.
“Where is your pitcher, wench?” a man-at-arms demanded, three layers of chin quivering beneath dry, fleshy lips.
“I…” She gasped. Of course the abrasive gown made her appear to be a serving woman.
The man pushed her back, releasing his hold on her. “Be about it now!”
She glanced over
her shoulder. Pitchers were perched alongside platters of viands on the trestle table against the wall, while coming and going were the servants, pages, and squires who served at table.
“Now!” the thirsty man barked.
Beatrix took a step toward him. “Pardon, but I—”
He thrust up from his bench. “I shall not tell you again, wench!” The last of his words spilled into a hall turned suddenly silent.
Beatrix was surprised that his churlish display had tamed the tumult. As she fell to the regard of all, she raised her chin. But before she could form words to defend herself, another hand turned around her arm. It was a touch she knew even before she looked into pale eyes brimming with displeasure.
Michael shifted his gaze to the heavy man. “Seat yourself!”
“But, my lord, the wench—”
“Is not a wench!”
The man’s face pillowing with confusion, he quickly lowered himself.
Michael looked around the hall. Almost instantly, the din resumed, though with less fervor than before. Doubtless, he was more responsible for the earlier settling of the hall than the odious man-at-arms.
Michael led her past the table. “You agreed to remain in the tower until Squire Percival came for you.”
Wishing she did not so profoundly feel his hand upon her, she said, “I lied—not unlike Edithe, I am sure.” Though she intentionally etched the words in derision, she cringed inwardly. She did not like who she was becoming.
Michael’s brow lowered further, but before he could form caustic words, she amended, “I did wait, but the garments were not delivered as you said they would be.”
“Had you waited a while longer, you would have had the gown. Even now Squire Percival likely delivers it to your chamber.”
She looked down her coarse skirts. “I thought mayhap you…decided against allowing me to leave the tower.”
“I should have.” He guided her around a table. “You cause too much trouble.”
A spark leapt through her, and she halted. If he wished to proceed, he would have to drag her before all who affected to not watch them. “Not as much trouble as I can cause, as well you know.”
Michael turned to her. “You seek to defy me?”
“There is no seeking about it.”
Were anger a thing to be held, she could not have better felt the weight of his. However, before he could unfurl wrathful words, she said in a rush, “Now, Lord D’Arci, as I am quite pained with…”
“Hunger?”
Such impatience! Another moment and she would have had the word. “Aye.”
Michael released her and swept a hand toward the high table. “Join me.”
He meant for her to sit at the lord’s table?
All around, feigned conversations were momentarily suspended over their lord’s invitation to a woman clothed as a serving wench.
As if unaware of the attention given them—or was it that he did not care?—he urged her forward and followed her onto the dais.
Jaw clenched, Michael looked to Canute who watched. Though Michael had sensed a lessening of the knight’s certainty over Beatrix’s guilt when she had told her tale to Maude, the older man continued to embrace the belief that Beatrix was no different from Edithe. And Michael could not fault him.
As Beatrix lowered to a bench three removed from the lord’s chair, Michael continued past her. Though he had intended for her to sit at his side, he told himself he was grateful she did not, especially as Sir Robert and the others whom Aldous Lavonne had set at Soaring were intent on them.
He took his seat beside Canute.
“Lady Maude is well?” his friend asked as if what had just transpired in the hall was of no consequence.
“She is but tired.” For Maude, Michael had earlier left his place at table to ascertain the nature of her absence. Rest was all she needed, she had said, having sent for viands to share with Lady Laura and Clarice in her chamber. Thus, Michael had left them to their meal and returned to find Beatrix mistaken for a servant.
He knew he should not have gone to her defense, should not have corrected the man-at-arms for thinking her a wench. But when he had seen the knave’s gluttonous hand on her, he had forgotten all. Regardless, Beatrix’s ill-timed appearance in the hall was his fault. He ought to have kept her locked up.
He lifted his goblet and looked over it to the knight who had first sent word of Beatrix’s arrival to Lavonne. Aldous’s illegitimate son, Sir Robert, continued to watch her. Doubtless, he pondered the meaning of her presence, and whatever his conclusion, this night his squire would ride to Broehne. And what would Aldous and Christian Lavonne think when they learned Beatrix had been allowed the reach of the donjon?
Michael almost snorted. What did he care? He drank down his drink, set his vessel forward to be refilled, and looked to Beatrix.
Her gaze was on her own goblet, but as she tipped it to her lips, she looked at him over the rim only to slide her gaze opposite. Whatever next fell to her regard caused her eyes to widen and the goblet to lower.
Michael followed her gaze to an upper table where his knights sat. But the one she stared upon was not of his household. It was the knight who had been granted lodging for having aided Maude on the road to Soaring. Sir Piers, if that was his name, returned Beatrix’s regard. With a barely perceptible shake of his head, he looked away.
She knew him?
Michael returned to her, but her head was lowered as if she sought to control the breath moving her shoulders.
Fighting the impulse to challenge Sir Piers, Michael considered the trencher that a serving woman placed before him. Better to wait and watch. Better the enemy he knew.
Beatrix stared at her hands in her lap and prayed no others would see their trembling. He had come. And she knew for what. Such a shock it had been to see him, and equally disconcerting to know there was no way to dissuade him from trying to steal her away. He was under orders and would do all that was required of him to ensure he did not fail his lord.
She turned her hands into fists. Never had she felt so mired. Regardless of where she turned, she would be given no aid. All worked against her.
She raised her gaze and focused on her trencher that wafted the heat of a promising meal. Though it no longer moved her, she reached for her spoon and scooped up a chunk of fatty meat for the benefit of Michael whose gaze she once more felt. Praying she had not allowed him a glimpse of her inner writhing, she passed the spoonful into her mouth.
I shall have my trial.
The knight who had somehow stolen into Soaring would have to disappoint his lord, for none would deny her what she needed. Of course, it was easier thought than accomplished.
As she once more reached to the trencher, a movement across the hall made her pause, and she looked up to see Squire Percival step off the stairs. From his florid cast and purposeful stride, he had come from her empty chamber. Did he think she had escaped? Fear Michael’s wrath?
Midway between the upper and lower tables, the young man’s gaze found her. He halted, but though his lips parted as if to gape, he quickly drew them taut.
Regretting the distress she had caused him, Beatrix lifted the corners of her mouth and shrugged a shoulder. He blinked, glanced once more at Michael, and withdrew.
It was so lovely, it nearly took her breath. She reached to the gown that had been carelessly tossed onto the bed—no doubt when the squire had discovered her missing—and smoothed a hand over the skirt. What was the name of the rich blue cloth upon which torchlight skipped? She knew it, her mother having possessed a bliaut fashioned of the same, but search though she did, she could not remember what it was called.
She fingered one of a multitude of silver leaves embroidered among the folds. She had rarely given much thought to her attire, especially as she was destined for a nun’s habit, but suddenly she longed to fit the gown to her. However, so fine a garment surely did not belong on a prisoner.
She met Squire Percival’s rigid gaze wher
e he stood in the doorway. “I do not understand.”
“As Lord D’Arci told, you are to dress as is befitting a lady.”
“But so fine a gown?”
The displeasure he had carried like a shield since escorting her abovestairs following the meal, wavered. “As there is no lady of Soaring, the gown had to be got from Lady Laura, Lady Maude’s companion.”
The woman who had been present during Beatrix’s audience with Michael’s stepmother, then.
“She allowed Lord D’Arci to choose it himself.”
Michael had chosen it? Of course, it would not have been fitting for his squire to make such a request of the lady. Did Lady Laura resent relinquishing such a fine gown to a woman believed to have murdered her lady’s son?
“As you are not as tall as Lady Laura,” Squire Percival continued, “the gown had first to be hemmed. For this, I was delayed in delivering it to you.”
Michael had said nothing of it. “I pray you will forgive me for not awaiting your…attendance,” Beatrix offered. “Lest Lord D’Arci decide against allowing me belowstairs, I c-could not wait.”
The squire looked momentarily away. When he looked back, he gave an acceding nod. “I am to stand watch at the landing below. Henceforth, when you leave the tower, you must do so under my escort.”
“I understand.”
“Good eve, my lady.”
“Squire Percival,” she blurted for fear she would not get the words out soon enough.
“My lady?”
“I-I would like to go to the Lord’s chapel.”
He frowned. “I must tell you that Soaring is without a priest.”
“No priest?”
“He died this past winter, my lady. He was much aged.”
“I see.” She had hoped to speak with one of God’s men.
“Still you wish to go, my lady?”
“I do.”
“Then I shall return shortly to escort you.”
She stepped forward. “I am ready now.”
He surveyed her homespun. “First you should change garments, my lady.”