by Tamara Leigh
Often the best way to deal with defendants whose minds are not whole, the justice had said.
Aldous had rejected that Lady Beatrix be allowed such a defense, but the man’s only response was to smile tolerantly and restate that it was for the best.
It had taken all the will Aldous possessed to not throw his goblet of ale at the man. Christian—that whelp!—knowing the emotions that held together his father’s ruined body, had stood at the window throughout the justice’s visit, eyes boring into his father, searching for what Aldous intended. Searching, but not finding. And he would not, for this time all would be done without his aid or knowledge.
Though Aldous knew the turning of his lips was only token, the fire having burned away all semblance of a smile, he allowed himself the indulgence afforded by the knowledge that he still had Robert.
Twinged by the affection with which he had once regarded his eldest son, a conniving, self-serving spawn for whom he had provided all despite his illegitimacy, Aldous cast aside the emotion.
Robert had proven time and again that he was undeserving. Still, he had his uses, among them a jealous longing to undermine Aldous’s legitimate heir. Thus, when Christian failed to honor his father’s wishes, as he did more and more of late, Robert could be counted on to assure that Aldous continued to exercise a measure of control over the barony. Unfortunately, his loyalty did not come without risks, for always the eldest son aspired to prove he was the worthiest of the three. If not for Aldous’s warning that not even the deaths of Geoffrey and Christian would see Robert named heir, the eldest would likely have arranged their demise. The possibility had once so frightened Aldous that, upon Geoffrey’s ascension to “baron,” he had sent Robert to serve at a neighboring barony. And there he would have remained if not for Christian’s woeful inexperience. Aldous had called Robert home and had yet to regret the decision, for his eager son did what was asked of him—a perfect fit for Aldous’s latest plan. Not that Robert wouldn’t need help, but that had been taken care of.
Aldous chuckled as he pondered what a few well-placed coins could buy. Greed shining bright from her eyes, his chamber maid had scurried off to do his bidding—as quietly as possible lest Christian turn suspicious and attempt to undo all that must be done.
“Christian!” Aldous hissed.
In the next instant, a memory of his youngest son opened a path in the middle of his seething—the six-year-old running toward him across the bailey with arms flung wide, leaning out of the saddle to sweep the boy astride, the boy’s flushed face and hot breath on Aldous’s face, his hopeful smile as he turned a hand around his father’s sword hilt, the chastening, followed by gentle teasing intended to draw a smile from downturned lips, their joined laughter…
“Christian,” Aldous bemoaned. “Christian.” Had he known what lay ahead, he would have allowed his son his heart’s desire—would have fit a sword to his small hand and taught him the ways of men who fight. Instead, Christian was taught the ways of men who pray and, in his heart, still believed all the Church had taught him—all his father had insisted he learn, and for which the boy had years later professed to hate his sire.
A sigh slipped from Aldous. Surely there was time yet to remedy his son’s shortcomings. Surely he would come around. Though he would never be Geoffrey, still he was a Lavonne. And there was hope in that. There had to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Two days.
Wishing she had a scabbard, though the linen in which she had wrapped the blade sufficed, Beatrix slid the dagger into the top of her hose and dropped her raised skirts.
Two days, which was the reason she was late to break her fast. Not until the sun had fully warmed her window had she emerged from beneath the coverlet. As she had not been able to sleep since awakening to find Michael over her, she had belabored the memory of Sir Simon’s attack—put questions to herself that might be asked at trial. She would be ready. Must be ready.
She sighed. It was probably good that Michael had denied her quill and parchment, for the monotonous rehearsal sharpened the telling such that when she spoke aloud her defense, it sounded less stilted. But for all of her practice, it would not be easy. An audience of none was far less intimidating than the many she would soon face.
She turned to the door, lifted a hand to tuck her hair behind her ears, and winced at the pain that shot through her arm. Though the bandage remained dry, Michael would likely wish to examine the injury, forcing her near him again. And that she did not want.
Because you do want it, the whisperer taunted.
Shortly, she entered the hall. It was quiet there, the voices of Lady Maude and Lady Laura the only ones to fill the space where the women lingered over their meal.
As Beatrix neared the dais, Lady Maude looked up. “Lady Beatrix, we did not expect you this morn.”
Did she and Lady Laura know what had transpired on the night past? The glances they exchanged told so, but Beatrix doubted many others knew.
She ascended the dais. “I apologize that I am late.”
Lady Maude gained her feet. “I would bid you to join us, but already we have lingered too long. Lady Laura?”
Beatrix was disappointed, for she would have liked to speak further with Lady Laura about what she had said in the kitchen corridor days past. It was as if she avoided Beatrix. Or was Lady Maude responsible? Since that day, always Michael’s stepmother was quick to her feet when Beatrix came near—quicker yet to take Lady Laura with her. Why? What did she fear?
“You are coming?” Lady Maude prompted when her companion remained seated.
“I shall soon join you and Clarice abovestairs, my lady.”
Beatrix looked from Lady Maude, who seemed to hang over the other woman, to Clarice who peered at her from where she stood alongside her mother.
“Then we shall wait upon you.” Lady Maude moved to resume her seat.
“’Tis not necessary.” Lady Laura shifted her gaze to her daughter. “Clarice has been patient long enough. Have you not, my sweet?”
The little girl nodded and grasped Lady Maude’s hand. “I’m tired of here.”
A stricken look flashed in the older woman’s eyes, but she said, “Then we shall go elsewhere.”
Clarice tugged the woman forward. However, when the two drew alongside Beatrix, Clarice paused and once more jabbed a finger at the skirts of her mother’s gown. “When you give back?”
Lady Laura gasped.
Beatrix smiled. “Soon.” She glanced at Lady Maude who avoided her gaze. “Methinks I shall not…need it much longer.”
“Good.” The little girl stepped past.
Moving slowly, as if aged another twenty years, Lady Maude allowed Clarice to pull her across the hall and up the stairs.
Lady Laura waved at the platter of viands. “Break your fast, Lady Beatrix.”
Beatrix slid onto the bench beside her. Though her appetite had suddenly dwindled, she reached her uninjured arm forward and chose a piece of crusty bread and a thick slice of cheese.
Here was the opportunity she had awaited. However, as she sought to address Lady Laura, her thoughts cluttered and she could not set her tongue to words that ought to be easy to form.
“How does your arm fare?” Lady Laura asked.
“Well, I think.”
The lady lifted her goblet. “Lord D’Arci is a fine physician.”
Seeking her way back to the path forsaken, Beatrix inclined her head. Now for the answers only Lady Laura could give.
“Be it wine or ale, my lady?” a tart voice intruded.
And Beatrix’s thoughts scattered again. She looked to the serving woman. “W-wine, please.”
The woman set a goblet on the table, poured, and turned back toward the kitchen.
As Beatrix sipped the wine, she met Lady Laura’s gaze over the rim. She lowered the goblet. “I have wanted to speak to you.”
“This I know.”
“What you said—”
“What I should not have,
but I did, and I regret it only for Lady Maude’s sake.”
“I do not understand.”
The sorrow in the woman’s eyes doubled. “Only because you have not looked near enough upon my daughter—as Lord D’Arci has never done, though Clarice has given him many opportunities.” She sighed. “Of course, one does not see what one does not wish to see.”
“You speak in riddles, my lady.”
“I speak most plain for any who listen, whose minds are not closed, who—” She gasped. “Forgive me. I forgot that you…”
Beatrix folded her hands in her lap. “Though ’tis true I am oft slow to speak, and sometimes my thoughts…crowd that I cannot speak them at all, my mind is not closed.”
“Forgive me,” the lady said again. “Too long I have held to me what should be obvious to those nearest.” Momentarily, she closed her eyes. “I fear I am burdened by what I cannot tell without doing more harm to one who has done me kindnesses I can never repay.”
Lady Maude? But what had Clarice to do with it? And what of Lady Laura’s belief in Beatrix’s innocence?
“Lady Beatrix—”
Beatrix held up a hand. “A moment, please.”
How does it all fit? Think! As her thoughts turned over, Lady Laura bit her lip as if in anticipation of what Beatrix could not quite touch.
…because you have not looked near enough upon my daughter.
If she did, what would she see?
…just as Lord D’Arci has never done, though Clarice has given him many opportunities.
What did Michael not see?
Beatrix lifted her gaze to Lady Laura. For Lady Maude’s sake, she should not have told Beatrix that she believed her tale of what Simon had tried to do.
Clarice, Michael, Lady Maude, Simon…
Understanding dawned, and as if Lady Laura saw it on Beatrix’s face, the woman nodded.
Beatrix’s breath caught. How could she not have seen it? It was all there, every piece joining one with the other, and yet she had been unable to make the fit.
Lord! The Beatrix of old would not have been so slow of wit. Unfortunately, as she was not likely to fully recover, she would have to make do with what she had gained back. And try to be content.
“It happened in the storeroom,” Lady Laura whispered.
Where Sir Simon had got her with child. “I am sorry.”
Lady Laura looked to her lap. “When I heard Simon was murdered by a lady, I knew the reason.” She dashed moisture from her cheeks. “Though Lady Maude did not wish to believe it, methinks she also knew.”
“Then she knows what…happened to you?” The moment Beatrix posed the question, the answer struck, returning her to the day she was summoned that Lady Maude might look upon her son’s murderer. Lady Laura had been silently present where she stood alongside the bed.
“’Twas she who found me ravaged.”
Beatrix saw the torment in Lady Laura’s eyes. “And…Sir Simon?”
“He did not deny he had lain with me, but told I wanted it—begged for it though my bliaut was torn and I was bruised near everywhere.” A sob punctuated the words. “I was betrothed to a man I loved. Never would I have…”
“I know.”
“As did Lady Maude. Still, she bade me to tell no one—to wait upon my menses. They did not come.”
But Clarice had. Pretty little Clarice who could not know from what violence she had been sown.
“Your…betrothal was broken?”
“Aye, no man wants a wife who has given herself to another.”
“But you did not give yourself.”
“Tryst or ravishment, the end is the same: a woman tainted, no lie to hide her swollen belly.”
Beatrix understood, though she did not wish to. For Lady Maude, Laura had not raised the hue and cry. Indeed, she seemed to have taken the blame for Simon’s cruel act.
“None but you and Lady Maude know the truth?” Beatrix asked.
“None. An unfortunate tryst with a visiting knight, it was told, and for it, Lady Maude vowed she would provide for me and my child.” Her weary lids lowered. “My family denies me—refuses to acknowledge that Clarice is of their blood. Hence, Lady Maude is all we have. And she has been so kind.”
So indebted.
Lady Laura rose abruptly. “What shall you do with what I have told?”
What could she do? Might she present at trial—
“Whatever you decide, Lady Beatrix, I cannot serve as a witness for you. Though I ache for what you have suffered and what you must face, I will not reveal to all the world what kind of man my lady’s son was—especially what kind of man my daughter’s father was.”
Beatrix’s emotions twisted, though she understood the lady’s reasons. If Lady Laura was believed after so many years of silence, dire damage would be done to those she loved. “I would not ask it of you. I shall hold your secret close.”
But the man who had slipped behind a tapestry when Beatrix entered the hall was not certain he could hold it so near. Canute clenched his hands and ground his teeth.
This morning, when Michael bid him to watch over Lady Beatrix, he had grudgingly acceded, as yet unconvinced she was innocent of the crime for which she would be brought to trial. Now…
Had he ever made so dire a mistake? What Edithe had done to Michael had made him certain that no word that passed a woman’s lips was to be believed, especially when the words cried ravishment. In his mind, all women were guilty of something. But perhaps not. Especially where Maude was concerned. With her, he had come as near to loving a woman as ever he had done. She, whom he respected more than any female, stood back as Lady Beatrix presented herself for certain death. Not that he did not understand why she did it. Were it known what her son had done, the humiliation might kill her. And he must not forget Clarice. Surely it was better she was believed to have been born of a tryst than ravishment.
He listened to the receding footfalls that told only one lady remained at table. Beatrix? The bench creaked, followed by a prayer spoken in Latin. Aye, Lady Beatrix.
A curse upon Sir Durand for interfering on the night past! May he rot—
Canute bit back bitter laughter. A curse on himself for having prayed something—anything!—might turn Michael from his quest to deliver Lady Beatrix to her family. For what he had done in sending word of her capture, he ought to be flogged. Worse! Had he not…
He shook his head. Two days, then Lady Beatrix was Lavonne’s.
None tried to stop her, even when she stepped off the bottom step into the inner bailey.
Staggered by Lady Laura’s revelation, Beatrix halted. There was nothing she could do with what had been revealed to her. Nothing that would free her of a sin she had not committed. Nothing had changed. She would have to defend herself as planned and pray God was with her.
She looked to the men-at-arms on the walls, then the castle folk who bustled about the bailey to fulfill their service to their lord. They watched her, most firmly Sir Durand who stood alongside the fence that enclosed the inner stables—until the destrier at his back nibbled his shoulder.
The knight turned and extended a hand, from which the horse greedily accepted his offering.
Beatrix put her chin up, her skirts as well, and stepped around a cart. Though she knew Sir Durand remained Sir Piers to all but a few, she crossed to his side.
He frowned heavily, and she knew he did not think it wise for her to approach him. “You should leave Soaring, Sir Durand. There is naught I…require of you.”
Ignoring his destrier’s nudge, he said, “Naught but my absence?”
Hating that she must seem ungrateful for what he had tried to do, she said, “I am sorry, but it must be as it is. Tell my brother—”
“Methinks it best you tell him.”
She laid a hand on the top rail of the fence and squeezed. “Pray, Sir Durand—”
“How is your arm?”
“It heals.”
“And my dagger?”
Con
scious of its press against her leg, she said, “It serves.”
He grinned, causing grooves to appear alongside his mouth.
He was handsome, and for a moment she forgot her bid to see him gone from Soaring and remembered all the times he had sought her gaze. Strange that she had never felt the flutterings for him that she felt when Michael—
Rejecting such thoughts, she stepped nearer Sir Durand. “You know you cannot accompany me to Broehne, do you not?”
He patted his destrier’s muzzle. “If you go, so shall I.”
“I am going, Sir Durand, and if you go, you may be recognized.”
“I may be as a spider slung from a beam, Lady Beatrix, but I shall be there—if you go.”
Then he might not honor his vow.
He leaned in. “Others may not, but I make a distinction between a vow freely given and one stolen.”
“Sir Durand—”
“I see your destrier is of a better mind today, Sir Piers,” Michael’s voice came across the corral.
Beatrix saw he stood in the stable doorway. Wiping his hands on a cloth, he held Sir Durand’s gaze.
Though it would be fitting for the knight to draw back, he did not relinquish the narrow space that separated him from Beatrix. “He is of a much better mind today, Lord D’Arci, though I fear it might be another day—mayhap two—ere he sees fit to release me from your hospitality.”
“Two days ought to suffice.” Michael looked to Beatrix. “There is something you require, my lady?”
“Naught of you, my lord.” Across the distance, she saw his jaw tighten.
“He looks to be jealous,” Sir Durand murmured.
He was wrong. Surely he was.
“But mayhap I err, my lady.”
“You do.”
“But not in telling that you feel for him.”
Feeling as if cut wide and spread for all to look upon, Beatrix glared at him, “Aye, you err. And trespass.”
A corner of his mouth tugged. “’Tis as Lord D’Arci said to me last eve.”
He had discussed her with Michael? When she looked around, Michael was gone. Had he returned to the stables?