A Sense of Duty - A Medieval Romance (The Sword of Glastonbury Series Book 4)

by Shea,Lisa

  Barnard would publicly marry the woman who birthed his child, and Charles, realizing the truth of the situation, would immediately insist the Beadnell lands become his. She knew what horrors would follow. She had heard the stories from further north, where there were not enough soldiers in place to protect the farmers from the bandit raids.

  Constance drew her eyes away from the fair scene with an effort. She walked to the large window, staring out at the forest beyond the walls of the keep. She reminded herself forcefully that she had achieved exactly what she set out to do all those years ago. She had kept the men, women, and children in Beadnell safe. Yes, Barnard would continue to try to beget an heir with every new female he found willing to yield to his advances. He would never give up hope, never resign himself to a marriage without issue. The years would roll by. She would live here, trapped, cloaked in eternal chastity.

  She was, indeed, in a perpetual purgatory.

  A shaft of sunlight came through the clouds, and suddenly she could almost feel the warmth of Gabriel’s arms around her, almost smell the richness of his scent, and she pressed her eyes closed against the tears which threatened to overwhelm her. She had chosen this path for herself, and she would not veer from it now. The Beadnell lands would stay safe. Her duty would be fulfilled. By the time she died, Charles’ children would be grown and more than capable of offering the necessary protection. Her nephews would carry on the family lineage, and her obligation would be satisfied.

  Pushing up her sleeves, Constance took in a deep breath and turned from the window. It was the best she could hope for, and it would have to do.

  She had half-finished packing the small traveling trunk when a sharp series of raps came at her door. There was no pause before it swung open and a sharp-faced woman peered in.

  “Oh, M’Lady, here you are,” she snapped, her eyes darting to the open trunk. “Your dinner is getting cold.”

  “I am sorry, I am not feeling hungry tonight,” apologized Constance. She looked away, her stomach rumbling slightly. The truth was that she was simply not up to dealing with the disdain of the rest of the household, not when she would be gone in the morning. Ralph was her only friend in the keep. The rest looked at her with a mixture of suspicion and contempt. She had failed their master, after all – not produced children for him, forced him into his many dalliances.

  She looked back at the middle-aged maid. “Please tell Barnard …”

  “My Lord is not here,” interrupted the woman coldly. “He is off to the village for the evening.”

  Constance knew she should be long past the hurt, but it still had the power to wound her, to know he was so openly parading his mistresses for all to see.

  The maid’s mouth drew down. “I suppose you would want me to help you with your packing,” she offered sourly.

  Constance shook her head no. When the maids cleaned her room, she often had to go back and redo the work afterwards, to make up for their spotty efforts. It was far better for her to handle this task herself.

  “Thank you, I will be fine,” she assured the maid, attempting a small smile.

  The woman pursed her lips, then turned without another word, closing the door firmly behind her.

  Constance let out her breath, slumping down onto the bed. She had tried numerous times over the years to be friendly. Back when she had been pregnant, during that first year, the servants had almost thawed to her. But when both attempts ended in miscarriages, it was as if she was seen to be cursed.

  She pressed her hand to her chest for a moment, feeling the pewter medallion which hung under her chemise by a thin leather line. It was all that kept her sane, at times – this one necklace, this one link to a happier past. She took in several deep breaths, then stood to finish her packing.

  Tomorrow she would be free. If only for two short weeks, she would taste the freedom that haunted her in her dreams.

  Chapter 2

  Constance cantered along the sun-drenched road, her heart soaring in the glorious beauty of the summer afternoon. A pair of middle-aged, rough-hewn men, surly at the thought of their assigned task, rode tightly on either side, their dark faces twisted into gloomy resignation. Constance would not allow their sour moods to bring down her feelings of joy. She had these two weeks each year as her own, and she was going to relish every hoofbeat, every fragrant new scent of the trip.

  The woods stretched along either side of the path, the waving branches green and verdant. She spotted a flock of sparrows swooping across the sky, and she thrilled in their flight. The coach she was sent to ride in, under strict orders of Barnard, was lagging miles behind by now, pulled by the one remaining horse. She knew the young coachman would catch up with them when they drew in at the next tavern.

  The miles rolled by, and her shoulders relaxed with each passing moment. She loved her elderly aunt and enjoyed the time she was able to spend sitting and talking with her. She wished that she could visit more frequently but she took solace that the nunnery was friendly and pleasant. Her aunt had chosen a good place to live out her life.

  The only thoughts that darkened her joy were the memories that the ocean and beach brought up for her. She could not make this trip, could not walk along the ocean’s shore, without vividly remembering Gabriel’s arms around her, his eyes gazing down at hers.

  Her face dropped. Without any bidding she suddenly remembered the look in his eyes when she told him she could never be happy with him. All light had faded, all hope had evaporated, all emotion had dissipated in the blink of an eye. Constance prayed every night that he had found a new love, had moved on and forgotten her. She knew that the same would never be true for her. Her hand moved again to the medallion she wore beneath her dress, and she pressed against it for a long moment.

  There was movement in the woods to the left, and she spun her head. It seemed, for a moment, that a pair of eyes looked out at her from between the dark trunks. Then they were gone, and the blur of trees continued to streak past the three riders, dense with oak and brush.

  She shook her head. Now she was seeing things, delusional in her daylight hours as well as at night. She could not count the number of dreams she’d had about Gabriel. Sometimes they were playfully sword fighting, ringing dagger on dagger, twisting in blocks and parries with shouted glee. Sometimes they were walking through her gardens, or along the ocean, content with each other’s company. However, most of the time they were seated in the tavern, staring across the small, round table, his eyes bereft of all hope …

  She actively pushed away the sorrowful memories. Her aunt was looking forward to her visit, and it would not be fair to mope gloomily about for the next fortnight. There were enough other weeks in the year to ponder her sadness, if that was her wish. For now, she needed to maintain her spirits and to bring comfort to an elderly relative.

  She glanced again in idle curiosity at the men at her side. From the looks on their faces the hired locals were not being paid well for their efforts. They seemed eager to return to their homes, and undoubtedly to their local tavern.

  The miles flowed by in smooth succession and in a slow, steady slide the sun began to hang lower in the sky. The outskirts of the town came into view and the horses slowed to a trot, then to a walk. The trio made their way through the quiet evening streets toward the tavern, the familiar copper kettle sign hanging over the door.

  A stable boy ran forward to take their horses and the two men escorted Constance inside. The main room was quiet, only a few patrons sitting at tables with ale or mead. A low fire crackled in the fireplace to one side. Constance glanced at the table in the back, empty, the chairs sitting to either side, looking the same as it always did in her dreams, a physical reminder of what she had lost.

  The barkeep came out from the kitchen promptly, smiling as he saw her. “Lady Constance, always a pleasure!” he beamed. “Shall I get you some ale, or a late supper?”

  Constance was tempted, and yet she knew she could not stay in this room, not with the wealt
h of memories it held. “I am sorry, but no,” she apologized. “I am exhausted, and would rather just go up to sleep. We will head on to the nunnery in the morning.”

  “Yes of course, your usual room is ready for you and your guards,” agreed the keep with a smile, stepping forward to lead them upstairs. Barnard’s frugality insisted that the guards share a room with their charge, although he claimed it was for her better protection, not for want of coin. Over the years the innkeeper had rigged up a sliding curtain to provide Constance with some modesty during her visits.

  She walked briskly into the small room, moving immediately to the window. She stood looking out at the small town and the ocean visible beyond. The salt air scent pervaded the town, but this was her first glimpse of the water itself. She remained there for a long while, barely hearing as the guards left her to return to the main tavern hall for some food and drink. She pressed herself against the window’s edge, staring out at the ocean, reveling in its grace and power.

  The sky above drifted into orange, crimson, and then finally the deepest blue. Her eyes filled with tears, and soon her whole body was racked with sobs. This is how she had stood, all those years ago, after Gabriel had walked out of her life. It was how she had stood, on her return every year since, her heart broken, knowing that she had lost the one person important to her. He was gone … he was gone.

  Time seemed to stand still, marked only by falling tears, until eventually there were none remaining to cry, and she was left only with a hollow ache in her core.

  There were footsteps on the stairs, and she wiped her face quickly, moving to the far side of the room, behind the shield of the curtains. The door opened and in a moment the two guards were bustling around, laying out the mats which served as their sleeping areas. Without a word they sprawled out on the thin rolls. A minute or two later, deep snores were emanating from both men.

  Constance took her time, carefully stripping off her outer dress and removing her shoes. After both had been laid out, she climbed into the narrow bed in her thin, white chemise. She put a dagger beneath her pillow, a lesson drilled into her by Gabriel, one she never forgot. She closed her eyes and waited for sleep to overtake her.

  There was no easy release. She lay awake for a long while, a myriad of thoughts drifting through her head. She could almost feel Gabriel’s strong hand in her own, feel the warmth that flooded through her when he smiled at her. Sternly, she gave herself a small shake. Her sacrifice had not been in vain. The alliance with Barnard had brought a stronger wall of troops to Beadnell. She had bought time and safety for the people of her homeland. If she thought the bandits were bad now, how much worse would they have been if Barnard’s forces had not moved into the area to help keep them at bay?

  Other soldiers had helped as well, she admitted. Her brother’s marriage and alliance with the Preston family to the south had further strengthened their alliances. Her brother, in essence, had done the same thing she had done – partner up to create a stronger border.

  Even the local wool-making guild had played a part in bolstering the area’s stability. Feeling threatened by the bandits, the guild had taken action and hired on a highly skilled group of mercenaries – the Angelus. The soldiers reportedly worked out of the guild’s main hall in the east. It was certainly due to the Angelus’ presence that the bandits had not won more victories.

  Still, nothing yet was certain. The infighting between Barnard and her brother seemed to be growing daily. The bandits, usually a fractious stew of factions and short-lived leaders, had become quiet. It was almost as if they were waiting for something, as if the area held its breath. For what, she wondered …

  There was a creaking noise just outside her door. Constance’s hand slid immediately beneath her pillow, her fingers wrapping firmly around her dagger’s hilt. The innkeeper would never dare enter their room by night, yet who …?

  The door flung open, and three cloaked, muscular men swarmed into the room in a blazingly fast rush. Two of the men went straight for the two guards, cutting their throats with brisk efficiency. Constance bit back a shriek, staying hidden behind the curtains as the third man raced in her direction. As he lowered himself over her, she came up suddenly with the hidden blade, turning it as she had done so many times in practice, driving the dagger hard against his throat. He reached up in shocked surprise, the blood spurting as he fell down across the bed, trapping her legs with his heavy body.

  The remaining two men were on her before she could recover, and the weapon was easily stripped out of her hand. The taller of the two loomed over her, his salt and pepper hair standing straight up like a brush. His face mottled with fury, and he drew back his fist to strike. The other man grabbed his arm with a quick shake of the head, a look of warning on his face. The first held back in barely contained rage, hatred shining strongly in his eyes.

  He glanced at the blood now sprayed across Constance’s chemise, then with a smooth motion reached down to pull the black cloak off his fallen friend and wrap it around her, hiding the blood from view. The shorter, red-headed one placed a knife at her throat. “Not a sound,” he warned with a steely hiss.

  It had all happened in less than twenty seconds. Constance’s heart pounded against her chest as the two pushed her quickly from the room. The men surely must be bandits, taking her for a ransom. Could she escape? She was barefoot, dressed only in the bloody chemise and a dead man’s cloak. She had no resources, nobody else to turn to …

  They went down the stairs and into the now-dark main room. Even in the pitch black, Constance’s eyes went automatically to the table in the corner, to where Gabriel had sat. Oh, Gabriel …

  She saw a movement. The men at either side of her froze, and the knife at her throat quickly moved around to press solidly into her back. She did not need a further command to understand what it signified.

  A candle flared from the back room, and the stocky innkeep, rubbing his eyes with sleep, took a step into the dining area. “Constance, is that you?” he asked in confusion.

  The taller man behind her spoke in a smooth voice. “We are from the nunnery. Her aunt has fallen gravely ill, and we must take Constance to her with all speed. There is not much time.”

  “Oh, of course, how awful,” agreed the innkeep with a groggy fluster. His eyes moved to Constance’s, sleep still maintaining a hold on him. “Is there anything I can do, my child?”

  The dagger pricked more deeply into her back, and she felt a warm bead of blood trickle down her skin. She took in a deep breath, willing her voice to be even and calm. This poor man would be slain if he attempted to interfere. Even if she tried to get a message to Barnard or her brother, would they care? Would they come? She was without hope …

  Her eyes flickered again to the table in the corner, to the man that even now she could imagine sitting in that spot, his arms strong, his eyes focused on achieving any goal he set. She wet her lips, impetuously speaking out.

  “Just tell Gabriel I said hello,” she asked softly.

  The innkeeper’s eyes flicked with surprise, but he nodded his head. “As you wish,” he replied shortly. “I wish your aunt good health.” He turned and left the room in the dark.

  The dagger was pulled away from her skin, she was quickly moved through the main door of the tavern, then around to the stables. The taller man put her up onto a large, black horse and immediately climbed up behind her. In another moment the trio was thundering through the night, heading through the blackness to an unknown destination.

  Chapter 3

  Constance awoke to a grey dreariness. She looked around warily in surprise, trying to get her bearings. She lay in a small room barely eight feet square. Beneath her was a low, dense mat, and she was covered by a rough wool blanket. There was one window, barred, which let in the morning sun, what there was of it. A fireplace lay cold and barren to the forward side of the room. The only other thing visible besides unfinished stone was the solid wooden door to her right. There were no hangings on the wall, no
t a stick of furniture except a chamber pot in one corner.

  She stood shakily, drawing the musty blanket around her thin chemise as she stood. She carefully made her way to the window. Thick iron bars blocked any chance of her dropping the three stories to the ground below. There was a narrow area of grass, and then forest stretched for as far as she could see. The building was apparently in a hollow surrounded by hills. The landscape seemed both generic and unfamiliar. A hawk sailed high above, scouting for a meal. There was no other noise from beyond her room, neither from inside the keep nor without.

  She made her way slowly around the room, looking for any indication of where she was. The chamber pot was of the most basic construction, red pottery with no markings. The stone was plain and rough. The door was firmly locked, and there was no answer to her shouts and pounds. Finally after an hour of walking around the room and trying every bar, hinge, and crack, she returned to her mat to sit and think.

  This had to be the bandits. Nothing else made any sense. They undoubtedly wanted a ransom for her return, to fund their further attacks. The question now was whether Barnard or her brother would feel the ransom worth the money. What did they lose if she languished? If she died, the province would revert to her brother’s control. Barnard would miss the land, she was sure, but he could be much more open in his quest for a fertile woman. On the other hand, if she were kept alive for years, the status quo would remain, but without her presence in the keep. Perhaps they would enjoy that even better …

  A noise sounded at the door, and she drew back fearfully on the bed. The door opened a small crack, and a plate of food was pressed in to the room, along with a mug of ale. The door swung shut again, and she heard a thick bolt being laid down.