by Deborah Hale
Was it her fancy, or did she hear him vent a choked whisper? “Help me, Cecily. You’re the only one who can.”
Had she the courage to try? Cecily asked herself as she held him close. Could she bear the heartbreak if she failed?
As she had failed her father.
Chapter Thirteen
“What’s this?” Rowan demanded of Con ap Ifan, as he stared at the shallow chest of cypress wood. He did not mean to sound so gruff, but Con’s sudden arrival with the box had caught him off guard.
He regretted his harsh words to both Con and Cecily from that morning, yet he could not bring himself to dismiss the suspicion that had prompted them. Cecily had grown to care for the man she thought of as John FitzCourtenay. Already she’d recognized that he bore little resemblance to her intended husband. Surely it would not take long acquaintance with the Welshman for her to see how much of his nature had gone into the character of John.
“’Tis a gift from your cousin Joscelin,” Con answered more amiably than Rowan expected.
Perhaps more amiably than he deserved?
“When you quit Edessa with scarcely a word of warning, he bade me bring this when I followed you. As a token of his gratitude and esteem.” The Welshman chuckled. “He may mean it as a bribe to lure you back. Not a bad fellow, as counts go, but no warrior. He’ll have his work cut out for him keeping old Zanghi at bay without you around, DeCourtenay.”
“My duty lies here, now.” Why must he be so stiff and pedantic with his old comrade at arms? Deliberately Rowan softened his tone, betraying a tiny confidence as a peace offering. “I took the cross and served my time—for what? The power struggles between Edessa and Antioch, Tripoli and Jerusalem. I saw nothing holy there to consecrate my service.”
It had been unpleasant enough to pass as penance—but did that matter to the Almighty?
“I’m not sorry to be back on this cool, green island, either.” Con glanced out the window. “Had my fill of adventure, I did. Now I think I could appreciate a quiet, useful life.”
“Not too quiet, I hope.” Rowan took the key Con offered him and unlocked the box. “We’ll need your skill at arms if we’re to reclaim Brantham Keep.”
When he threw back the lid of the chest, a pungent aroma of eastern spices wafted through the tower room. Rowan glanced over the contents, unexpectedly warmed by his cousin’s generosity.
A silver diadem set with jewels. A luminous enameled icon of the Virgin. A Psalter with ornately carved ivory for its cover. Two bolts of silk.
“Take this to Cecily.” Rowan closed the box. A slow, tentative smile tugged at his lips. “As a bride gift. She can use the silk to make her wedding finery.”
“Are you certain you’d have me take it to her, DeCourtenay?” The Welshman cast him a mocking grin. “Just a few hours past, you warned me away from your fetching bride. Which is it to be, then? Act as your emissary or keep my distance?”
It was one thing to trust Conwy ap Ifan with his life, Rowan reflected, despising himself for his suspicion. Quite another to trust such a charmer with Cecily. The way he had trusted Fulke DeBoissard with Jacquetta.
He’d learned from that lesson in the most painful way possible.
“Take it to Aenor.” Rowan refused to meet his friend’s gaze, afraid of what he might find there. Could it be any worse than what he found when he looked into his own heart? “She can see that Cecily gets it.”
Would his feelings for Cecily, a dizzying blend of euphoria and paralyzing terror, end up costing him the only true friend he’d ever had?
“I’ve never given you cause to doubt me, Rowan.” Con’s soft words grated with the bitterness of aggrieved honor and a longstanding fellowship transgressed upon. “Nor ever would. But I cannot exact your trust any more than you can exact your lady’s fondness. Neither is worth a groat if they do not come willingly. Mark me, old friend, if you try to hold her too close, you’ll drive her away.”
Even as he savored the wisdom of Con’s advice, Rowan’s pride raged. How dare this fellow, on the basis of less than an hour’s acquaintance, counsel him on how to handle Cecily?
“You’re a fine one to talk, ap Ifan. I have been wed and will be again. What do you know of women but the quickest means to worm your way into their beds and the speediest route back out again?”
Con hefted the chest. “You know I’m right in what I say. Otherwise you’d never go on the attack like that.”
The look on his friend’s face made Rowan wish he could cut his tongue out.
“I knew love once,” Con added, his gaze distant and wistful. “I was fool enough to let it slip away from me, and hardly a day’s passed since that I haven’t regretted it. I won’t stand by idle and watch you do the same. No matter how you abuse me for it.”
Not knowing what to reply, Rowan gave a vaguely dismissive grunt and turned away.
Could the Welshman be right? Rowan paced his wardrobe, fumbling for answers. After all the danger they’d shared, he only wanted to keep Cecily safe, in body and in honor. If she loved him as she claimed, surely she would not defy him at every turn.
What was love, after all, without loyalty?
What was love without respect and trust? Cecily asked herself as she stared longingly out into the bailey. She had never met a man who went so by contraries. Rowan appeared intent on mewing her up in his castle like some sort of prisoner. Had he been infected with such strange notions in the East, where the women were kept cloistered from the world by their husbands?
It was far too much like the worst aspects of Wenwith Priory. Only without the prospect of rising to a position of womanly authority.
Did Lord Rowan not understand that she could talk and jest and work with every man in Ravensridge without them having the smallest effect on her as a woman? Even Con ap Ifan, who might well make some other maiden bosom flutter, could never be more to her than a fond reminder of her brothers.
Yet tightly as Rowan tried to hold her, he refused to let her into his confidence. More evidence of mistrust. Was there not a man in the world who could value her for herself? Her father had wanted a son. Heaven only knew what Baron DeCourtenay wanted!
Noises from the doorway stirred Cecily from her troubled musings.
“Bring it in,” ordered Aenor. “Set it there. Now be off with you.”
A brawny young manservant set down his burden in the middle of the chamber and departed with a reluctant glance back. Curious, perhaps, to see what it contained.
“What is this?” Cecily eyed the compact chest with its queer foreign carvings.
“A box of some kind,” replied Aenor. “As to what’s in it, I know no more than you. The Welshman brought it to me with orders I should fetch it here. Some manner of bride gift from Lord Rowan, he said.”
“Gift?” The word came doubtfully to Cecily’s tongue. She could not recall the last time anyone had offered her a gift. All her life she’d been forced to strive and compete for anything she wanted. Attention and respect included.
“You won’t be able to open it without the key, I suppose.” Aenor handed it over.
She fairly wriggled with impatience to see the contents of the box. For an instant Cecily entertained the uncharitable desire to bid Rowan’s sister-in-law away, so she might examine her gift in private. Then she relented. Though the pair of them had almost nothing in common, Aenor had tried to make her welcome at Ravensridge.
Cecily turned the key in the lock, then raised the lid of the chest. She and Aenor exclaimed in unison.
“I have never seen such riches.” With cautious hands, she drew out the gem-studded silver crown. “Are you certain Lord Rowan meant this for me? All of it?”
Bereft of her usual banalities, Aenor only nodded.
Reverently, Cecily surveyed the icon and the ivory-bound Psalter. How many hours had holy brothers or sisters labored in the scriptorium over this treasure?
The vellum pages fell open to one, wonderfully illuminated. “Like as the hart longs for sw
eet water, so longs my soul for the Lord.”
She had been a fool to doubt Rowan’s love. She had come to him with nothing but trouble as her dowry. He had seen her safely here and instantly made ready to ride to Brantham’s aid. Now this.
More eloquently than any words, it spoke of the value he placed upon her.
“Will you look?” From near the bottom of the chest, Aenor took out two bolts of… “Silk! And such colors—primrose and periwinkle. I have never seen aught like it. This must be what the Welshman meant when he said we should find something for your bridal finery.”
Intoxicated by the exotic perfume that wafted from the chest, Cecily rubbed a corner of the delicate cloth between her thumb and finger. The hues were so vivid—a deep, golden yellow and the blue of a midsummer sky. In so fine a kirtle and gown, even a brown, boyish creature like herself might look beautiful.
From out of nowhere came a question that startled Cecily almost as much as it appeared to startle Aenor.
“Did you ever meet Rowan’s first wife?”
Aenor nodded, a faraway look glazing her eyes. “It was at their wedding I met my Baldwin, God rest his soul. Jacquetta and I were cousins. Kinswomen of the old duke’s mistress. Dangereuse—was ever a woman more aptly named?”
Cecily had no interest in decades-old gossip of the Poitevin court. “I’ve heard she was very beautiful, but what was she like, your cousin?”
“She was a beauty, indeed. They used to say we were like day and night. Me with my fair hair and she with her dark. And like the night in other ways, too.”
Cecily marveled at this small flight of fancy from so ruthlessly practical a creature as Aenor.
“She was shy and demure,” Aenor continued. “Men used to think her mysterious. In truth she was a very private creature.”
What an enigma Jacquetta must have been to her cousin! Cecily’s flash of levity instantly faded. Rowan had loved that modest, demure, private creature. To distraction, as he’d once admitted.
“Do you think Lord Rowan had aught to do with her death?” Here was another question Cecily had not meant to ask. Once it had escaped her lips, though, she did not regret it. Unlike her brother-in-law, Aenor appeared incapable of concealing anything she might know.
“Of course not!” Aenor seemed to swell up, as Cecily had often seen hens do in defense of their chicks. “How can you of all people ask such a thing? Rowan has been kindness itself to me and my young William. And yet…” She hesitated.
Cecily sensed the woman was giving unbidden voice to private thoughts. She waited for what would come next.
“There are times,” continued Aenor, “when a wild look comes into his eyes, as if he would take me by the throat and throttle me.”
Something in Aenor’s voice brought a pulse of panic to Cecily’s throat. She had seen that glint of feral rage in Rowan’s eyes all too recently.
Suddenly aware of what she’d said, Rowan’s sister-in-law amended hastily, “That may be no more than some foolish fancy of mine. Anyone who’d ever seen the pair of them together could not believe such vile rumors. If ever a lad was smitten with a lass, it was Rowan with Jacquetta.”
For some reason, those words pierced Cecily’s heart. Which would be the harder to hear? she wondered. That Rowan had murdered his wife in a rage, or that he had cared for her with a love so profound, he might never plumb those depths again?
Quiet, mild, biddable—if that was the kind of wife Rowan wanted, then Cecily would give it to him. As a child she had been too headstrong to remake herself in the image her father wanted, and now it was too late. She never wanted to feel this same regret for her husband.
He could not complain of Cecily’s behavior this evening, Rowan realized as the great hall of Ravensridge rang with laughter and song and the sounds of hearty feasting. The lass was circumspect as any nun, passing scarcely a word with anyone. He hadn’t noticed it, at first, being occupied with welcoming their guests.
There had been a lengthy exchange of news, most centered on the captivity of Earl Robert, and whether the Empress would ransom King Stephen to get him back. With the conflict between the great ones at an impasse, more than one of the lesser barons had taken the opportunity to enlarge their own holdings. Like dogs fighting over bones fallen from the feast table.
He would have to tread carefully in his attack on Brantham, lest neighboring lords rise to Fulke’s aid. Nothing must cheat him of his rightful revenge against that vile blackguard.
Rowan’s knife slashed the haunch of venison before him. He glanced up to see Cecily eyeing his knife warily.
“You are unwontedly quiet tonight, lass.” He helped her to a chunk of meat. “What ails you?”
“Nothing, my lord.” Did she expect him to believe that? Her voice was so soft, he had to strain to hear her above the clamor of the hall. “I am better rested and better fed than in many a day. You have showered me with magnificent gifts. What more can a bride ask for?”
Something, obviously. The hunger for it edged her words.
Freedom? queried a faint chiding voice in the back of his mind. Trust? suggested another. Or perhaps the company of a man who never existed? Such boons were not within his power to bestow. Or were they?
“You liked the gifts, then?” Why did he bother to ask? All the splendors of Byzantium could not buy him this woman’s affections.
She nodded readily. “The Psalter most of all. It was not necessary, though. You have done well by me already.”
“And the silk? Will it furnish you a fit gown for our wedding?”
“Past fit, as well you know, Rowan DeCourtenay. Such richness is probably wasted on me.”
“Never. Vivid colors become you.” He smiled, hoping to coax one from her in return.
Her lips lifted into a wan, wistful imitation of her true smile. The elusive one that flashed when he least expected it, lighting her face as it lit his heart. He should have known better than to think such a thing could be bidden.
“A drab wren needs to borrow brilliant plumage now and again.” She tried to make the words come out in a light, self-mocking jest. But there was no laughter in her face.
A drab wren. Was that how she saw herself?
“I didn’t mean it like that. The bright colors suit your nature. The yellow is like…your smile, and the blue like your laughter.” Would she think him daft?
Rowan ducked his head, hoping to hide the color that suffused his own face.
He almost missed it.
But at the last second, he braved a fleeting glance at her. There, like a jewel more precious than all the bounty of Edessa, shone her luminous, ice-melting smile.
“Aenor and I managed to get the cloth cut and basted. She told me the ladies of Gloucester would finish the fine needlework on it tomorrow in time for the wedding Mass.”
Just then a great yawn racked Cecily. She tried to stifle it, but failed. “Perhaps I am not as well rested as I thought. It is no slight on your company, my lord.”
Rowan cast a glance around the hall. “This may go on for hours yet. If you wish to retire for the night, I will excuse you. We have an important day ahead of us tomorrow.”
Bending toward Cecily, he spoke quietly, for her ear alone. “Aye, and an important night, too.” For some reason, his anticipation was not as keen as it once had been. He was not in such a great hurry to bed the meek, docile creature beside him as the pert nymph in the hay byre.
Rowan quashed that notion. “I cannot risk having you nod off on me. No doubt Aenor will roust you up at daybreak to attend the sewing. Be off with you, now, while you are still alert enough to climb the stairs safely.”
She looked ready to answer with some saucy quip, then she stiffened and cast her eyes down modestly. “As you command, my lord.”
As she rose to retire, Rowan snatched her hand. “I am not the tyrant you think me, Cecily. When I bid you do something, it is for your own good.”
He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed them to it. “Unti
l our wedding day, then. Sleep well, dear heart, and dream pleasant dreams.”
“Sleep and dreams cannot be bidden, my lord.” A restiveness seethed beneath her words. “As for the other, in time I hope you will grow to trust that I know what is good for me and what is ill.”
She slipped away before he could reply, leaving Rowan to mull over her answer. As a starving hound might worry a bone too tough for its teeth.
One of his guests engaged him in talk, but he spared it scant attention. Some time had passed before he surveyed the hall and noticed Con ap Ifan was not in his usual place. Longer still, he resisted the urge to check on the Welshman’s whereabouts. Until, finally, he could stand the uncertainty no longer.
If only she could be certain what he wanted from her.
Cecily’s temples throbbed as she made her escape from the great hall. The dancing shadows, loud voices and intense smells all pressed in upon her, heightening the pain in her head and making it impossible for her to sort out her conflicting thoughts.
Of Rowan’s good intentions, she had no doubt. Of his feelings for her, she wished she could be more sure. Too often she caught him in a look of disappointment, as though she was failing him somehow. This marriage would be so much easier if she cared less about him. If she craved neither his love nor his approval. But there could be no going back now. As Mabylla had often chided her when she was young, all the king’s men can’t unbreak an egg.
Lost in a fog of doubt and disquiet, Cecily turned a corner and collided with Con ap Ifan. He grasped her arms to keep them both from falling.
“Pardon, my lady! I was too eager to get back to the feast. His lordship’s kinsmen asked me to check on the stabling of their horses. I hope it was not just an excuse to drink up all the mead while I was gone. Has someone sent you to chase geese as well?”
He wove a little on his feet, and the fumes of strong drink laced every word he spoke. A man in such a state was apt to talk more freely than a sober one.