by Tamara Leigh
Fingers aching from the ferocity with which she gripped the sheet, Gaenor realized how far she was from where she ought to be after all the time she had spent prostrated before the Lord. She might not yet be able to forgive Christian, but she could prevent the discord between them from taking a more dire turn.
Determined to embrace the reprieve granted until her monthly flux, she said, “Good eve, Husband,” and turned her back to him. To her surprise, she began to drift almost immediately, and it was not long before she slept.
In the hours before light peeled back the night, Christian brooded over what Gaenor had said and his response.
Though he had vowed he would not be drawn into an argument, he had risen to her bait and found himself dangling from her hook. Words had been spoken that should not have been, and if he did not more carefully guard his emotions, more would be said that was better left unsaid.
Hearing her breath catch, he hoped it did not mean she was about to toss again as she had done throughout the night. Not that it had disturbed his own rest. Indeed, he would have preferred that to be the extent of it. It was his senses that were disturbed each time her arm or leg touched his.
When Gaenor remained unmoving, he looked to the window. Though he usually rose in advance of the dawn, it was not acceptable to do so following his wedding night. Thus, willing the sun to more quickly light the sky, he threw back the covers, dropped his feet to the floor, and dragged on the hose and breeches he had left at the foot of the bed.
For a quarter hour, he paced the chamber as light crept within and avoided looking at the sleeping figure of his wife. He tried to stop turning over what had been spoken between them, but that left only what had not been spoken, specifically how Gaenor had learned of his bargain with her brother. He told himself it did not matter, but it did. If her brothers had not revealed it, and he was inclined to believe they would not, it was Sir Durand who had been present during the meeting with Baron Wulfrith months past.
Was it that which had made Gaenor flee Stern Castle with the man? Or would she have done so regardless?
Christian returned to the bed—and saw she was awake where she lay on her side. He looked from her eyes to the abundance of hair spread on her pillow and could not have been more grateful she had retained her chemise. “Good morn, Wife.”
She raised her eyebrows. “How would you have us proceed?” she asked as if she’d had far enough time to ponder the day ahead.
“As man and wife.”
He thought he saw relief in her eyes—as if she feared the new day would bring talk of an annulment. “Very well.” She rose onto an elbow. “You know ’tis customary to…hang out the sheets?”
As proof of consummation, but even if he had been so foolish to join with her on the night past, there would be no blood to show for it. Only dishonor. “They shall be hung out.”
As she averted her gaze to hide what was surely dismay, he motioned for her to rise. When she did, he swept the bottom sheet from the bed, opened a healing wound on his forearm, and used the sheet to stanch the blood.
“As the injury was gained from a Wulfrith,” he said, “the blood will serve.” He glanced at her where she hugged her arms against the chill morning air.
She frowned. “I do not understand.”
He pitched the wadded sheet to the center of the bed and went to the chest that contained his clothes. “You are my wife now. Any dishonor that stains you, stains me. Thus, do you bring forth Sir Durand’s child, only I will know.”
Unlike on the night past when she had allowed her anger to spew, she controlled the emotions that made her hands clench on her arms.
Christian pulled on tunic and boots. “I am sure your brothers are anxious to know how you fared on our wedding night.” He pushed a hand through his hair to bring it to order. “Do not delay in joining me at meal so that we might ease their concerns.”
He started to turn away, but came back around. “I want your brothers gone from Broehne as soon as possible. Though they will know ‘tis not virgin’s blood that flies from the window of the lord’s solar, I would not have them think our marriage remains unconsummated.”
As she loosened her white knuckled hands from her arms, Christian wondered if her flesh would be bruised. “Of course,” she said. “I do not wish them burdened any more than already they are.”
He strode to the door and closed it behind him.
Gaenor considered the sheet. His blood, not hers. Yet again, he had spared her and her family humiliation—first in agreeing to go through with the marriage, now in making it appear she had come to him untouched. He professed to do so out of self-interest, but might he be influenced by something other than the peace and stability he sought for Abingdale? When her monthly flux arrived a fortnight hence, might there be healing between them?
From the bed, she had watched him pace in and out of her field of vision, had felt his struggle, had hoped not only for his forgiveness, but that she could forgive him for his deception. Hoped, not prayed.
Though Christian had told her not to delay, Gaenor knew she must seek her knees, for what was hope without prayer? Thus, her head was bowed and hands clasped when the door opened and the chatter of women fell away.
She completed her prayer, stood, and turned to the two who stood in the doorway—the young one bearing a gown, the older one an armful of linens.
“My lady,” the latter said with a curtsy.
“My lady,” the younger woman went through the motions with downcast eyes.
“Our lord has sent us to see to your needs.” The older woman bustled forward. “And to hang the morning after sheet.” She peered at it and nodded. “It bodes well.” Her mouth curved with a smile that hinted at warmth. “I am called Josephine.” She beckoned the younger one forward. “Aimee has been given to be your maid.”
Aimee glanced up, and Gaenor glimpsed something like resentment in her eyes.
“I am grateful for your aid,” Gaenor said, though she was not so certain. With the exception of those few days at Stern before Beatrix’s wedding, it was months since she had played the lady and allowed another to see to her dress and ablutions.
“I have brought one of Lady Mary’s gowns.” Aimee unfolded a simply cut pale blue gown and held it up for Gaenor’s approval.
“Lady Mary?” Gaenor asked.
“The baron’s departed mother, my lady,” Josephine said. “’Twas also her gown you wore to speak vows with our lord.”
Gaenor fingered the silken material. Despite the gown’s simplicity, it was cut of fine cloth and well made. “She was nearly as tall as I.”
“Aye, my lady, though the baron’s father…” A shadow crossed her face and she bit her lip.
“What of the baron’s father?”
Josephine shrugged. “Though he is not as tall as his youngest son or departed wife, he is of good height.”
“I have not yet met him.”
“And you will not,” Aimee muttered.
“Aimee!” Josephine rebuked.
Gaenor frowned. “I was told he is bed-ridden.”
Aimee snorted, only to flinch when Josephine stepped toward her and drew back a hand.
“Do not!” Gaenor snapped.
Josephine slowly lowered her arm and looked around.
As both women stared at her, she realized what was required to take her place as lady of the castle. She must be as her mother, Isobel, who owned the respect and admiration of the castle folk.
She stood taller. “I know Broehne Castle has been without a lady for many years, but I am your lady now, and I will not tolerate such disrespect”—she narrowed her gaze at Aimee—“or retribution.” She looked to Josephine.
The surprise on their faces soured, and Gaenor knew her reprimand would unite them where division had existed.
Certain that the days ahead would prove trying as she sought to establish her place at Broehne, she told herself it was to be expected, especially as it was many years since the castle folk h
ad been under the direction of a lady.
“Now, Josephine, I would know the reason I am not to meet my husband’s father.” Not that it was a disappointment, for she knew it was Aldous Lavonne who had ordered his illegitimate son, Robert, to take revenge on Beatrix. And who would have succeeded if not for Christian.
When Josephine’s only response was to press her lips inward, Gaenor looked to the younger woman. “Explain, Aimee.”
She cast her gaze elsewhere.
Gaenor sighed. “As neither of you is capable of adding anything to this discussion, I will seek the old baron myself.” Not that she wished to have any relation with him. Rather, she would know behind which of the closed doors he lay that she might avoid him.
“That, my lady, is not possible,” Josephine finally loosened her lips. With an almost imperious lift of her chin, she said, “The old baron is no longer at Broehne.”
Then Christian had honored her family’s strongly-worded request that his father be removed so she would not suffer his hatred or ill intent.
“Ah!” Aimee turned accusing eyes on the older woman. “You told!”
Josephine swung her head around, and the hands she clenched at her sides revealed she was tempted to use one on Aimee. “’Twas you who first opened the door, insolent wench.”
“You opened it wider!” Aimee stamped a foot. “I—”
“Where is Aldous Lavonne?” Gaenor raised her voice above their squealing.
All semblance of warmth having fled the older woman’s face, Josephine said, “’Tis not our place to tell. You will have to ask our lord.”
Gaenor sighed. “I shall do that. Now attend me that I might break fast with my husband.” It was an order, and so intended that both women would know she would not be snickered at or tread upon. Though it seemed happiness was to be denied her, there was consolation in that it would not be a dull existence.
They were watched, and it seemed Gaenor was just as aware of the eyes that followed them.
As Christian reached for a piece of cheese, he considered his wife’s brothers farther down the lord’s table. Wulfrith and Everard were assured of returning to their homes in a timely manner, but from Abel’s comment this morn that they ought to resume their search for Robert, the youngest brother planned to stay on for a time.
Christian preferred otherwise, and yet there was much to recommend the plan, for their efforts to overtake the brigands had been greatly aided by the knight’s keen senses and ability to find tracks where there appeared to be none. True, Robert yet evaded capture, but he had only narrowly stayed ahead of his pursuers. If not that Christian had suspended the hunt to collect his bride, the miscreants might now be in irons. Yet another reason to resent the woman who silently shared his platter of cheese and bread.
He looked at her, only to wish he had not, for she was becoming in the pale blue gown that had belonged to his mother. Lovely, in fact, with two large plaits bound halfway down her hair’s length to allow the curling ends to drape her bosom.
Of Aimee’s doing, he guessed, for the maid was given to such extravagance with her own hair, as well as that of other castle women. Providing Aimee set aside her sister’s resentment of Abingdale’s new lady, she would make a good maid for Gaenor. Not that he ought to care.
“You stare, Husband.” Gaenor looked sidelong at him.
Vexed at being caught, more at being attracted to her despite her perfidy, he leaned near and forced a smile. “I am thinking you present well, lady wife. Indeed, none would know the babe in your belly is not mine.”
Her face flushed and, again, anger lit her eyes.
When Christian glanced at those at the lower tables, the lively expressions of several told they believed it was an intimacy their lord and new lady shared. As he wished it. Still, he regretted allowing his tongue to unwind.
Knowing his in-laws would not be as optimistic about what had been spoken between husband and wife, he met the steely gaze of Abel, the steadfast gaze of Everard, and the discerning gaze of Wulfrith. They knew it was no intimacy.
Berating himself for not guarding his tongue as the Bible told and which he had done faithfully as a monk, he broke off a piece of bread.
“I am told your father is no longer at Broehne,” Gaenor surprised him.
Irked by the loose lips of the women he had sent to attend her, Christian turned to Gaenor and saw her flush had receded and anger had dimmed.
“Where has he gone?”
He ground his jaws. “We will discuss my father elsewhere.”
“Where? And when?”
“That is of my choosing.”
She smiled tightly and laid a hand on his arm. “If you truly wish my brothers gone from Broehne, it would serve you not to scowl so.”
There was a limit to how much pretense Christian could swallow, and he had reached his. He pushed back his chair and motioned for an end to the meal.
As benches scraped and those at the tables took up muttering over the meal’s duration that they had surely expected would be prolonged in celebration of their lord’s marriage, Christian strode the length of the dais.
Heart heavy, Gaenor watched him depart the hall. As the porter closed the door behind him, she stood.
“You look lovely,” said Garr when he appeared at her side.
In an attempt to better compose her face, she glanced down her skirts. “It seems my husband’s mother was nearly as tall. If I but add two fingers of material to the hem, I shall be quite presentable.”
“Necessary only if you cannot wait a few days for your own clothes to arrive.”
She looked up. “You have sent word to mother.”
“I have, and by now she knows you are well and wed.”
Ashamed that she had not asked that word be sent, Gaenor averted her gaze.
Garr turned her so that her back was to the hall and her face hidden from others. “Since much weighs upon you, Sister, ‘twas for me to do.”
“I thank you.”
He bent nearer. “Everard and I leave this day.”
She gasped. “Must you?”
“Our duties await us.”
“And Abel?”
“He shall remain at Abingdale for a time.”
“My…husband knows?”
“He does, and though I do not think he is pleased, Abel will remain for as long as he is needed.”
“You think I require protection?”
Garr gripped her elbow. “Let us speak elsewhere.”
She allowed herself to be guided abovestairs to the chamber her brothers had been given.
Once the door was closed, Garr said, “The baron did not speak to you of his father?”
“The maids who attended me this morn said he has been removed from Broehne.”
“You know the manner in which he was removed?”
“I assumed my husband sent him to another castle.”
“I wish that were so, Gaenor, but the old man was taken from Broehne by his illegitimate son, Robert.”
She nearly stumbled where she stood. “But Sir Robert is imprisoned in London.”
“No longer. With the aid of those of Abingdale’s knights and men-at-arms who were released from Baron Lavonne’s service for breaking fealty, he escaped. And here he came to once more wreak havoc. He and his brigands stole into Broehne and, after killing some of your husband’s men, took Aldous Lavonne with them.”
Moved by realization, Gaenor asked, “When did this occur?”
“Ten days past.”
Remembering those who had ridden on Wulfen when she and Christian—then Sir Matthew—were at the stream, she nearly groaned. It must be that which had taken Christian away without a word to her. Meaning he would have returned to the stream. But would he have revealed his identity to the one who had suggested Sir Matthew steal her away? Or would he have further indulged in his game?
“Why did no one tell me Baron Lavonne was in training at Wulfen while I was there?” Hopefully, Garr would think her husband had re
vealed his presence at the fortress and not delve her question further.
“As you were isolated from the others, there seemed no reason to notify you lest you become alarmed.”
“But why there when you could as easily have trained him at Stern?”
“Not only is Wulfen situated nearer the baron’s lands lest he was needed, but there are none better at training in the art of arms than Everard and Abel.” His face turned more serious. “I vow ‘twas done to better provide for your protection, Gaenor.”
“Which you believe I still require.”
“Only until Sir Robert and his brigands are brought to ground, and that is why Abel remains—to assist until the king sends the men he has promised to beat out the woods and bring the miscreants to justice.”
“Why would the king send men?”
“’Twas from his prison that Sir Robert escaped, and his guards who fell to the sword like those at Broehne when Aldous Lavonne was taken. If not for what was nearly done to Beatrix, I might pity Sir Robert if he is captured by the king’s men.”
“And what if he is captured by his brother?”
Garr was silent a long moment. “Ultimately, Sir Robert will fall into the king’s hands, for your husband will be required to give him over.”
“And you think he can do so knowing the king will execute his brother?”
“He will have to, Gaenor.”
Then he doubted Christian’s resolve to bring Sir Robert to justice. Of course, it was a dagger to the shoulder, not the back, her husband had thrown to prevent the knight from murdering Beatrix. Was it affection that held him from taking his illegitimate brother’s life or care for their father?
“What I do not understand,” she said, “is how Sir Robert was able to take the old baron from Broehne. He is said to be infirm.”
“He is.”
“You think he went willingly?”
Garr raised his eyebrows. “’Tis likely, for Christian isolated his father following the attempt on Beatrix’s life lest the old man tried to turn his vengeance on you.”